


The Weight of the Past

by Rumaan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Purple Wedding, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Drama, F/M, Red Wedding Fix-it (sort of), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2463857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumaan/pseuds/Rumaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a visit to her uncle Tyrion, Lord Protector of Winterfell, Myrcella strays too far into the Wolfswood and encounters someone long thought dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unexpected Faces

**Author's Note:**

> I'm living dangerously in posting a third WIP for ASOIAF (and that's not counting my Dramione WIP), but I've had this first chapter sitting in my files for a ridiculously long time, so I thought I'd post it, which then might make me get a move on with chapter 2! Robb x Myrcella was my gateway into ASOIAF fanfic, so it's strange that it's taken me so long to write anything for the pair of them. So, yes, creeping out from my happy little corner of Jon x Sansa to post this! 
> 
> Regarding the plot, I stray firmly into wish fulfilment territory with this pretty cracky plot but I hope you enjoy.
> 
> This is not beta'd so please excuse the mistakes.

The howl of the wolf startled her. The night was drawing in and Myrcella was still lost in the wide expenses of the Wolfswood. The late summer snow made finding any identifiable location even more impossible and she wished she hadn’t let her horse throw her. At least it would have known the way back to its stable. 

Myrcella also cursed her stubborn temperament. Uncle Tyrion had forbidden her to ride out, saying that the weather was closing in. But all Myrcella had seen was the bright blue sky, the first day of sun for over a week, and she had been determined to take advantage of it. Her family might say that all Dorne had given her was a marred face and a wilful nature, but it had also given Myrcella a taste of a freer life and she had chafed at her trammelled existence since returning to the bosom of the Lannister family. 

Now, she wished she had listened to her uncle or, at the very least, taken an escort out with her, instead of trusting in her skill on a horse and the basic navigation she had learnt alongside Trystane.

 _Stupid!_ she thought. Those lessons hadn’t taught her just how close a dense forest could be, or how alike trees could look. 

Leaning back against a tree, she took several deep breaths, attempting to slow the rapid breathing that signalled the start of a panic attack, and looked around, determined to try and find something to help her. Her eyes drew a blank and a sob escaped her throat as she drew her cloak closer around her, as if the crimson colour of house Lannister could somehow protect her.

Her uncle may be Lord Protector of Winterfell, but this was still Stark country and the wolves that roamed these woods had taken many a Lannister man. 

Another howl rent the darkening sky, closer this time and Myrcella’s heart sped up. A scratching of claws on ice had her shaking hands scrabbling at the tree trunk as she attempted to find purchase so she could swing herself up into the branches, out of the reach of any wolf packs looking for a meal. But all she felt was the smooth bark, nothing she could use to lever herself up. 

Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer to the Warrior to keep her safe. The harsh panting had them flying back open again. The first thing she saw was the enormous wolf - larger than anything she had ever seen, it was the size of a small horse and would easily top her shoulders. Her breath hitched and her mouth dried in fear. Yellow eyes stared at her out of smoke grey fur, a growl rumbling from its chest, lips pulled back in a fierce some snarl. 

_This is it_ , Myrcella thought. _I survived the Dornish desert and Darkstar’s blade to end my days in the jaws of an unnatural wolf in the snows of the North._

Some would say that it would be a fitting end for a daughter of House Lannister, certainly those who remained loyal to the Starks. After all, her family had orchestrated the downfall of House Stark and now ruled their stronghold through marriage with the last remaining Stark daughter. 

There was a scrunch of boots on snow and a hand reached out, gripping the wolf by the scruff of fur at its neck. The rest of the man stepped out from behind a tree and Myrcella’s eyes traced over the restraining hand, up the arm, across the shoulders and neck and into a pair of vivid blue eyes she could have sworn she had left in Winterfell that morning. 

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion as she tried to discern more of the man’s features, but a hood was drawn close over his head and furs muffled his face. She could feel the intensity of his gaze, and she pulled her cloak around her more closely.

“What are you doing out here? Where is your horse and escort?”

The voice was that of a nobleman, northern though the accent was, and it puzzled Myrcella even more. The only castle within an easy ride was Winterfell, but this was not one of her uncle’s men. Despite how nervous this unknown man made her, she had no choice but to answer him and hope he would guide her back to the castle. She refused to think of other actions he could take, in revenge for her family’s defeat of the North. Too many Northmen had died at the Red Wedding, and the Lannister’s role in that atrocity was known throughout Westeros. 

“My horse bolted and then threw me. I am staying at Winterfell, is it possible you could show me the way back?”

His body visibly tensed at her words and her anxiety increased. It was not as if she could lie about her origins, dressed as she was in a crimson cloak lined with gold tinged fur.

“I know the way to Winterfell, but you are miles away and it is far too late to try and make your way there this afternoon.”

The darkening gloom gave credence to his words but there was something about him that made her shiver and not trust him to return her even if it was the morning. 

The strange man held a hand out and said, “Come. I know somewhere you can stay.”

Myrcella hung back, her instincts telling her not to go with him. 

“What are you waiting for?” he asked, impatience colouring his tone.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

He looked her up and down with a brief laugh that may have set her at ease if she had not seen the disparagement in his blue eyes. “You do not. But if you stay here, you will either freeze or be a tasty meal for a wolf.”

As much as she didn’t want to admit it, the stranger was correct. She could not fend for herself. She had nothing to start a fire with and no provisions, not even a water skin, which had been hanging from her saddle. Reluctantly she moved forward and placed her hand in his, hoping she would not come to rue the decision.

His fingers closed around hers, engulfing her small and apprehension slipped down her spine. Why did it feel less like help and more like a shackle? She twitched her hand, looking to see if she could slip it out of his grasp and his fingers tightened. 

“I can walk perfectly well, Ser,” she said. “You do not need to keep a hold of my hand.”

“The way is slippery,” he said, but his explanation did not settle her nerves.

\------------

They walked for what felt like hours. Night fell completely and Myrcella was finally glad of the grip of his hand as she struggled to see, the flickering light of his torch did little to illuminate the forest floor. Every now and again, a pair of eyes would gleam out of the darkness, and whilst apprehensive, she now appreciated the timely appearance of the stranger, knowing she would not have made it to the morn on her own.

Finally, a small light appeared in the distance and her pace picked up at the thought of warmth and food. She had eaten nothing since breaking her fast that morning in the Great Hall. The giant wolf bounded ahead of them, startling a shout out of a sentry ahead.

Following in a more sedate manner, she was led up into the mouth of a large cave and her anxiety increased. Had she fallen in with bandits? She had no hope of trying to disguise her origins, even if she had not told the man that she had come from Winterfell, not with the colour of her cloak or the gold lion clasp that held it together. She wished she had worn a plainer cloak – one that did not scream who her house was – but this was her warmest and the North was far colder than anything she was used to, especially after living in Dorne. She had forgotten the cold in the seven years between her first visit to Winterfell and now. When she had arrived, Uncle Tyrion had laughed at her shivers and told her she was lucky the winter had passed if she thought this was cold. 

But her warmest cloak now felt like a curse with its Lannister trimmings. A daughter of the wealthiest house in Westeros would be worth a pretty penny, especially the sister of the king and the niece of the Lord Protector of Winterfell. That was if they planned to ransom her. They could do far worse and call it revenge. 

The stranger pulled her past curious eyes towards the back of the large cave. At first, it had looked like one large chamber, but as they swerved around a jutting rock, it extended even further back, with several rocky passages could branching off and soon she was travelling through one into a small cave chamber where a group of men sat, pouring over a map spread over a large, smooth boulder.

“Uncle!” the man called.

A tall man with grey hair, bushy eyebrows and the same blue eyes she could see on her captor turned, smiling in greeting but then, as he turned to see her, his eyebrows rose.

“Caught yourself a lion, nephew?”

The man pulled his furs aside to reveal a wolfish grin and familiar features. “Aye, this little lioness was stumbling around with no horse or guard. Grey Wind nearly took a bite.”

Myrcella’s heartbeat stuttered at the name of the wolf. Even if the name had not been made famous in songs, she had heard it years ago, when, as a child, she had thought the young heir of Winterfell a handsome lord, and had briefly dreamed of a betrothal. Her gasp rang out as his cloak fell back, revealing hair that shone copper in the firelight.

“That’s not possible!” she exclaimed, her hand on her collarbone as she tried to regulate her breathing. “You’re dead.”

“Oh, I assure you, Princess, I am no phantom.”

“But you died,” she repeated, stupidly.

Robb Stark gave a brief bitter laugh. “Now, what was it they said about me? That I could not be killed? I guess they were right.”

Finding it impossible to tear her eyes away from him, Myrcella tracked all the changes to the last time she had seen him. Gone was the pleasant laughing boy who had been so charming and kind, taking the time to listen to her shy answers to his questions. Now he was every inch a man, taller, broader with hard eyes that stared out of his face and a long scar that wound it’s way from his temple, disappearing into the ruddy beard. _Not so much the Young Wolf as the Winter Wolf_ , she thought.

Her worries earlier that day seemed faintly entertaining now. If only she had fallen into the hands of bandits. They, at least, would have been appeased with Lannister gold. Robb Stark would settle for nothing less than vengeance, she was sure. 

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked quietly, proud that her voice had not trembled or shown her fear. 

“One thing is for certain, you will not be returning to Winterfell. Not if I have my way,” he said before turning to his uncle. “Has Maege Mormont returned?”

“Not long before you,” Ser Brynden replied.

“Good,” Robb said, calling out to one of the other men to go and fetch her. 

Myrcella backed up against the rock wall, her head spinning, as the two men moved over to the map and started discussing something in detail. Her presence had seemingly been forgotten, which suited her. She needed an opportunity to gather her thoughts. 

How would her uncle react to this situation? In her opinion, Tyrion was the smartest of her Lannister family. He might lack the fear that her grandfather inspired in everyone, but he had managed to survive five years in a hostile North. Now, what would he do if he were in her place?

_A Lannister always pays his debts._

Uncle Tyrion was rather fond of that saying and he had a household guard that was loyal to him through the gold he generously gave them and the honours he gave them. He was aware of how their loyalty was maintained and had made an example of the first sellsword he had taken into his pay. 

He had married Lord Bronn off to Jonella Cerwyn, not only giving the sellsword a castle and a title, but making sure he was in easy reach of Winterfell should he need a bannerman who knew which side his bread was buttered. Castle Cerwyn was only a day’s ride from Winterfell. 

Myrcella would have no problem trading off her name and her family’s wealth. Tyrion would pay any promises she made. She would just need to find the weak link in Robb Stark’s men. No easy feat, she was sure, considering his presence just a few hours out from Winterfell had gone undetected.

It would be easy for her to become dejected at this realisation, but her grandfather and uncle had both taught her that anyone could be bought with gold. The price just needed to be right.

“Lady Mormont!” 

The greeting gained her attention and her eyes fell on the strangest woman she had ever seen, short and stocky with grey hair, and dressed in chainmail that had seen better days with a sword strapped around her wide hips. 

Myrcella had heard about the fierce women of Bear Island, her Uncle Tyrion laughing about the reception he had first received from the youngest Mormont, Lyanna, who had scorned paying allegiance to a Lannister, proclaimed her loyalty was to House Stark and had refused to kneel to anyone other than Sansa. Myrcella had always thought that this Lyanna Mormont was lucky Lord Tywin Lannister had not been present as Bear Island may well have found itself razed from the map if he had seen such an insult. However, Tyrion, whilst perfectly ruthless at times, had appreciated the defiance, proclaiming that he had never known when he was beaten, either. Her uncle was also intelligent enough to know that the North could not be punished any more for Robb Stark’s kingship. The Mormonts had already lost one daughter at the Red Wedding and their lady had been missing for years. Instead, he had sought to tie the North closer to the Westerlands, and had betrothed Lyanna to Martyn Lannister. Punishment enough, Myrcella suspected, for a proud she-bear. 

“Your Grace, you asked for me?” Maege Mormont replied.

It was the first time she had seen Robb Stark addressed by his kingly title. With his uncle only using his given name, Myrcella had not been sure if he was still claiming to be King in the North. But her mother had always said the Starks were stupidly stubborn and never knew when they were beaten. 

“This is _Princess_ Myrcella, Lady Mormont. Grey Wind found her wondering the Wolfswood earlier. I would like to put her in your charge,” Robb said, the emphasis on her title not lost on Myrcella. As far as she was concerned, the rumours about her birth had been put to bed and she did not appreciate the slur.

Grey eyes as cold as the northern wastelands examined her and Myrcella shrunk into herself under the hostile gaze. “I would be honoured, Your Grace. If you would come with me, Your Highness,” Lady Mormont said, a slight sneer on Myrcella’s title which had her bristling. 

But she stepped forward, aware that antagonising her captors at this moment in time would not be smart. She had to play the long game and see who she could potentially win to her side. 

Robb’s blue eyes flashed to Myrcella for a moment, taking in the scar that ruined half her face and then up to her eyes. “Keep her close, Maege, and rotate the guards regularly. If she is anything like her mother, then she will not be above using her beauty to gain her freedom.”

It had been a long time since anyone had described her as beautiful, not since Gerold Dayne’s sword had scarred her so badly. For a brief moment, the vain part of her thrilled at being called so once before it was locked away once more. 

“Lyra and Jory will help me guard her. There should be no need for anyone else.”

Nodding his acceptance, Robb Stark turned away and moved back towards the boulder in the centre of the room.

“Come along, Your Highness, I’ll show where we are sleeping.”

With one final glance at the man they had called the Young Wolf, Myrcella stepped in front of Lady Mormont. 

Why had she not remained in Winterfell today?


	2. Unwelcome News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who reviewed and left kudos. It's much appreciated.
> 
> This chapter is not beta'd so please excuse any mistakes.

Tyrion watched as the flames consumed the latest message from his father in King’s Landing. For Tyrion, the biggest aspect in Winterfell’s favour was how far it was from the seat of the Iron Throne. It meant ravens were the only way Tywin could exert pressure for him to get an heir on his Stark wife unless his father made the trek up the Kingsroad to Winterfell himself, which was not likely, not less something truly dire happened. 

Settling back in the chair behind the desk in Lord’s Solar, Tyrion moved onto the next correspondence, which came east from the Karhold and gave him a headache of a different kind. The Karstarks and the Manderlys remained locked in battle over the Bolton lands and had been for the past three years now, ever since Roose Bolton and his son and heir, Ramsay, had mysteriously died on a hunting trip, most of their men with them. Raiding Wildlings had been the official explanation that Tyrion had given out but the manner of their deaths had been too organised and precise for that to actually be the case. Lord Bolton’s head along with his bastard’s had been cut off and placed on a spike facing Winterfell, in a message that could only be read one way. They had been executed for crimes against House Stark.

Tyrion suspected Lord Manderly was behind the act. For all his obsequiousness, he was crafty enough to pull something like that off. He was also ambitious enough to want to claim the Dreadfort and the surroundings lands. Tyrion had been tempted to gift the lands to one of the younger Crakehall brothers, knowing they had the strength and military prowess to hold off any ambitious Northerners, but the hostility he had faced after marrying Bronn to Jonella Cerwyn had stayed his hand. It would do no good to rile the North up even more. His presence was still only accepted because of his little wife and the destruction of the northern forces.

The thought always made Tyrion a little bitter. He had rebuilt Winterfell, restoring the castle to its former glory after the Bolton bastard had burned it down. He had driven the Greyjoys out of the North, made sure the northerners hadn’t starved during the cold winter that followed soon after and had seen the land replanted when spring had come. But he was continually viewed as a stunted monster responsible for the downfall of House Stark and the Northern lords swore their allegiance with an obvious reluctance that had his anger boiling.

He deserved respect from his uncouth vassals but he knew he was only tolerated because of fear of his father. 

His sour thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Enter!” he called.

The tall figure of his wife came in, her usually serene countenance disturbed by a small frown.

“My lady, how can I help?”

“I am sorry to disturb you, my lord, but I thought you had told Myrcella that she was not to leave Winterfell today?”

Tyrion nodded and replied, “Yes, I said I could not spare the men to take her riding in the Wolfswood.”

“And you did not change your mind, my lord?”

“Positive. What is this about, Sansa?”

The furrow between Sansa’s brow deepened at this and Tyrion could see that she was worried. She didn’t often let her guard down, but it was down now. “Well, the Master of Horse came to tell me that Myrcella’s horse was missing and that none of the stable-boys have taken it out for exercise, or were aware that it had gone.”

Swallowing the annoyance that Alyn had gone to Sansa rather than himself, Tyrion focused on the importance of the message. “And Alyn has spoken with every stable-hand?”

Sansa nodded. “I also took the liberty of checking both the library and Myrcella’s bedchamber and she was not in either.”

“The kitchens?” 

“I passed through them on my way into the Keep.”

“The Other’s take the girl!” Tyrion swore as he rose rapidly from the chair, ignoring the pain in his back that he got if he sat for too long. “She was in Dorne for too long and is a wilful as any of the wenches that are bred down there.”

“You think she will have taken her horse out anyway?” Sansa asked.

“I’d stake Casterly Rock on it.”

Sansa’s hand rose to rest on the creamy skin just below the bottom of her throat and Tyrion hated himself for following the action. “But surely she would not ride into the Wolfswood unattended?” 

“You might not but Myrcella would,” he replied grimly.

The girl had come back from Dorne not only scarred but reluctant to accept curbs on her freedom. In King’s Landing, she was forced to behave due to the overzealous presence of the Kingsguard and the stifling nature of the Red Keep, but it appeared that Winterfell had given her scope to slip her rein and he knew who would get the blame if anything was to happen to her. Myrcella’s missing ear and behaviour was yet another charge laid at his door from his _loving_ father and sister. 

“I will muster the Winterfell men, my lord. The Lannister guards will not be much use in the Wolfswood, unused to the terrain or the animals that hunt there.”

Tyrion could not stop the bitter smile that twisted his lips at Sansa’s words. She was right, damn the girl. His Lannister men would be no use in such a search and she was in a far better position that he was to command the Stark men – for Stark men they would always remain, and they showed it in a variety of ways. They would never come quite as rapidly for Tyrion as they would Sansa. Lady Sansa was the one who was knelt to first. The dishes placed on the tables every day always included at least one that had been a favourite for one Stark or another. Tyrion was used to the misty eyes his wife would get when she would eat of something that he knew her not to particularly like, but would explain that it had been Lord Eddard’s favoured meal. 

Sansa herself had grown into the beauty she had promised as a young girl, but she seemed incapable of seeing past his deformity and last name, no matter how many years passed. However, they had managed to develop a comfortable existence together, as long as he did not seek to come to close. At least she no longer feared him, but he could not help but wish for a warmer relationship. One where love was involved and he did not have to visit the brothel in Winter Town. He was sure his frequent visits to the whores were sniggered at behind his back. However, Sansa was a Stark and she would never ever forget that he was a Lannister.

Just as this blasted castle would not forget that it had a lion rather than a direwolf flying above the Great Keep.

\-----------

They found the horse as they left Hunter’s Gate and travelled across the brief moor that the Kingsroad cut across before the Wolfswood engulfed the land with its close dwelling trees and almost airless atmosphere. For someone brought up overlooking the Sunset Sea, the enclosed environment was stifling. Tyrion hated the Wolfswood and would only venture in if necessary. He much preferred to ride westwards, along the rolling moors that surrounded Winterfell, and could, if you squinted, be reminiscent of the hills and mountains of the Westerlands.

 _Casterly Rock should be mine_ , Tyrion thought bitterly, not for the first time. _But instead, I’m forced to try and appease a hostile wasteland that suffers me only because they fear my name._

Myrcella’s horse was located just inside the trees on the path that wound from Winterfell to Deepwood Motte. Tyrion cursed as he saw it, riderless and dead-set on finding its stable. 

Alyn dismounted, handing his reins to one of his underlings, before catching the bridle of Desert Sun and soothing the spooked horse. It was a sand steed, a gift from Doran Martell to Myrcella, who remained in correspondence with her former hosts, despite the sundered engagement and missing ear, and much to the consternation of her grandfather. Tyrion had his own ideas as to why the Martells remained so gracious to Myrcella and, as much as he wanted to believe it was because of her charm and wit, he thought it had much more to do with keeping House Lannister on its toes. 

The horse had obviously thrown Myrcella, dumping her somewhere in the vast expanse of the forest. The dangling water skin from the empty saddle showed just how unprepared his niece was to survive too long a time alone in the Wolfswood. 

“The snows will help in track where the horse came from, my lord,” Alyn said.

Tyrion squinted out into the gloom of the Wolfswood. It was never what he would call bright in the North, colouring leeching out of the country by the often overcast sky, but it was particularly murky within the forest. “Well, that’s a start, at least.”

Standing up on his stirrups, Tyrion looked at the men around him, all dressed in the muted greys and browns that the Northmen preferred and said, “I want you to fan out. It is imperative that we find Princess Myrcella as quickly as possible.”

Following the lead of the Master of the Horse, the men spread out in a long line and headed in a north-eastwards direction, following the tracks made by Desert Sun.

\----------

It was fully dark by the time Tyrion made it out of trees and espied the torches of Winterfell twinkling in the distance. His legs and back ached furiously but not as much as his head. They had found no sign of Myrcella, the horse’s tracks getting lost in the slushy snow near a stream and not being found due to the deepening twilight.

Despite his desire to push on, to make the men search until he had Myrcella safe with him, Tyrion had called a stop to the search when Alyn had suggested that it was too dark to do any more. If anything, the men’s concentration had gone, focusing less on the horse tracks and more on the increasing cries of the wolves that howled around them. 

_It was a_ Wolf _swood after all, and wolves had no reason to be too fond of lions these days_ , Tyrion thought and he shuddered at the thought of just what might meet his niece in the coming night. 

Sansa was there to welcome the returning party in the dark of the courtyard with a handful of maids who handed the cold men mugs of hot mulled wine. It might be late summer in the North, but it was as cold as a winter in the Westerlands. 

The men sipped gratefully and raised their noses to the savoury aromas that could be smelt across the castle from the Great Hall.

“There is warm food in the Hall,” she called out, watching as the men slipped from their horses and handed them over to the stable-boys too young to go out tracking, making their way in twos and threes across the vast stable yard and into the welcoming light and warmth of the Great Hall. 

Soon, only Tyrion was left, standing forlornly in the yard until Sansa came over, her hands holding a steaming mug. “I took the liberty of ordering a hot bath and food in your chambers, my lord,” she said. 

He smiled at the courtesy that she always showed towards him, despite how much it must have eaten at her to see him sit in her father’s place and sleep in her mother’s room. “Thank you, my lady,” he replied subdued.

\-------------

It was later, when Poderick put the cheese on the table and Tyrion could finally sit back, his feet on a small footstall that helped ease the pains in his lower back and upper thighs, when Sansa knocked on the door.

“My lord?” she called out and he bade her to enter, dismissing Poderick at the same time. 

“I spoke to Alyn in the Great Hall,” Sansa said as she sat demurely in the chair on the other side of the hearth. 

_Of course she would do her duty as Lady of Winterfell and sup with the men_ , Tyrion thought. It was something that he could never get used to. His father had brought his children up to keep a distance from the retainers that kept Casterly Rock running smoothly. The Hall there was only used to feast important visitors when a strict rank could be maintained. Lord Tywin would sneer at the familiarity the Starks showed towards their retainers, where the Master of the Horse could sup with the Lady of Winterfell and it be thought a normal occurrence. 

“Oh?” Tyrion said, folding his hands and waiting for Sansa to speak. She would not have come up here unless it was of some import.

“He said it is likely to snow overnight and the chances of picking up Princess Myrcella’s trail come the morn are slim.”

“I see,” Tyrion said. “Did he say any more?”

Sansa hesitated and Tyrion knew there was no good news to be had. “He does not rate the Princess’ chances overnight. Even if she did manage to find somewhere to sleep away from the elements, there are the wolves to consider.”

It was nothing that he had not thought already but having it said in such stark language twisted his gut, making the food he had consumed sit uneasily. He leaned over to the side table, picking up the carafe of wine and pouring liberal amounts into the two glass goblets that Pod had left for that purpose. 

_Did she smile at the thought of what might happen to Myrcella?_ Tyrion thought as he handed Sansa a glass, before shaking his head and realising that in the nasty thought he did his little wife a disservice. She might have no reason to love Lannisters, but she had never held a grudge against either Myrcella or Tommen, recognising them for the sweet children they were. Not that Myrcella was a child any more. 

At 16 she was a comely maid for all her scars. Cersei and Tywin might lament the loss of beauty, but for Tyrion it gave her character, showed that she was a survivor. A lioness who would not go down easily, which gave him some comfort as he thought about her stuck in a hostile environment far from home.

“I think Alyn is being overly pessimistic,” Sansa said, a hopeful look on her face that made Tyrion all the more ashamed at his earlier thought. 

“Myrcella is a resourceful girl,” Sansa continued. “She would know to find shelter of some kind.”

“And the wolves?” Tyrion asked.

An anxious frown puckered between Sansa’s brows for a moment before she rallied once more. “There is no reason to suppose that she would be attacked. Besides, if she can light a fire then she can keep any potential predators away. My brothers once spent the night out in the Wolfswood, my lord father let them as long as they took Jory much to my lady mother’s chagrin. Robb came back the next morning crowing at how the fire they built in the mouth of the cave kept them safe.”

Her face fell as it would whenever she would speak of her family. Leaning forward, Tyrion clasped the hand that did not clutch at the wine goblet. “Thank you, Lady Sansa. You are very kind to give me hope.”

She gave him a rather forced smile and he pretended not to see the tears in her eyes. He knew how much she hated appearing weak in front of him.

He looked away and into the fire, giving Sansa a chance to compose herself and to worry about just what may happen to his niece.


	3. Plans Afoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your reviews and kudos for this story. I love hearing what you have to say.
> 
> This continues to remain unbeta'd so please excuse any mistakes.

The air puffed out of Robb’s mouth, forming into misty tendrils that drifted upwards towards the tree canopy before they dissipated into the frosty air of the early morning. Grey Wind shifted restlessly at his side and Robb could briefly smell the earthy tang of a young doe as his mind melded with that of his wolf. 

“Soon,” Robb said to the large direwolf, knowing how hungry the beast was. 

There was a soft trill of a bird that Grey Wind answered with a brief howl, frightening a rabbit out of a nearby bush. 

A minute passed before the muted sound of horse hooves squelching through the mulchy undergrowth of the Wolfswood could be heard. 

“Your Grace?” came the quiet call and Robb emerged from the thicket he had been concealed in.

“Alyn” he answered, giving one of his rare smiles to the man who lay hidden within the walls of Winterfell for him.

Winterfell’s Master of the Horse swung himself down and tethered his mount to a low branch that hung from the nearest tree. The horse bucked at the smell and sight of Grey Wind so Robb sent his wolf off with a click of his fingers. Alyn watched warily as the wolf padded silently into the trees.

Clasping the other man’s hand, Robb clapped him on the back. Alyn came from a long line of retainers loyal to House Stark, and he had no doubt that it had been his sister who had suggested him for such a position. Westermen held the majority of high places in Winterfell these days and thanks to Alyn’s information, Robb knew that it caused further resentment amongst the Northmen still employed by the castle and those stationed in Winter Town. 

It had been a stroke of luck that had brought Alyn to Robb. The Master of Horse had been using his tracking skills to try and ascertain just why so many Lannister guards kept disappearing. He had come across Grey Wind’s marks and was laying down a trap when some of Robb’s own patrols had come across him. Recognising him for a Northman, they had brought him, blindfolded and a little bloody from their fists to Robb. It had taken nothing for the man to transfer his allegiance, the tears streaming down his face when he saw that a trueborn son of Eddard Stark lived. He had provided valuable information ever since, allowing Robb to move his plans forward by many turns of the moon.

“You have the little princess, your Grace?” Alyn asked, an anxious furrow resting between his brows.

“Aye,” Robb said, amused by the hasty question and the small sigh of relief that left Alyn’s mouth after his confirmation. “You are fond of her?”

“She’s a sweet little thing for all that she does not listen.” Alyn said, a fond smile on his face. “Rides a horse with tremendous skill.”

“Wilful is she?”

“Aye, enough to give that dwarf of an uncle grey hairs even before she rode off without an escort or his permission.”

“That disobedience was a stroke of luck for me in any case.”

“How did you find her?”

Robb grinned. “I didn’t, Grey Wind did. He caught her scent and thought to treat himself to some tender flesh.”

Alyn visibly shuddered at that. Once upon time, Robb might have worried about how others viewed Grey Wind and their bond, had worried himself about just what Grey Wind meant, but now he kept his wolf close and trusted its instincts. Grey Wind had not been wrong yet. 

“Lucky for the little princess, I was on hand,” Robb said. 

Robb was aware that Grey Wind’s ability to eat manflesh was disturbing for others. He generally did not dwell on it. His wolf had gone through too many battles for him to worry and he always stayed far from Grey Wind’s thoughts when the wolf hunted.

“Aye,” Alyn said uncomfortably. “What do you mean to do with her?”

“Nothing just yet. The time is not right for me to make my move, but she adds significant leverage so I will not be letting her wander off unlike her uncle. Is the garrison inside Winterfell ready?”

“The men know to expect something. The ones that wear the grey of House Stark anyway. Only a few of those I trust the most know why.”

“Keep that number to a minimum, Alyn. Surprise is how we are going to win this.”

“I will, Your Grace.”

“And Sansa?” Robb asked, ignoring the lurch in his gut as he said his sister’s name. 

A bright smile lit up Alyn’s face. “She does well, although she is worried about Princess Myrcella. She’s a credit to Lord Eddard and your lady mother. She is a true Lady of Winterfell.”

Pain lanced through him and Robb tried not to think about the last time he had seen Sansa. It had been similar weather then and he remembered how the snowflakes clung in her hair, standing out starkly against the auburn colour. She had been no more than eleven then with the biggest and brightest smile, anticipation radiating off her at the prospect of the journey south. 

Not long now, Robb told himself. How he longed to catch her up in his arms as he had when they were naught but children, to kiss her forehead, and beg her forgiveness. She had ended up married to a monster because he had been too concerned at losing his main bargaining chip to swap the Kingslayer for her. 

Robb shook his hand to get rid of the memories, now was not a moment to reflect on his past mistakes, but to concentrate on the future. 

“Stay as close as you can to the dwarf, Alyn. Mull is posted in the Winter Town, if you need to get word to me then go to him,” Robb said, clapping Alyn on the back. 

“Aye, Your Grace. I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

Robb nodded his thanks as Alyn untied his horse and vaulted back up into the saddle, disappearing into the trees in the direction of Winterfell. 

Robb remained where he was for a few minutes, wary of any potential dangers even if he had no doubts about Alyn’s loyalty. He had learnt the hard way to remain on his guard at all times even where he thought to trust. Lannister gold and promises had undone him once before and he was not likely to underestimate it again. 

Around him, the forest settled back into its routine, the sound of the snuffling of small woodland creatures amongst the undergrowth mingled with those of the birds that flapped through the trees calling out to each other. 

As he strode silently back towards his hideout, Grey Wind emerged from out of the trees and padded by his side, licking his muzzle which was stained with blood.

“A good feed, boy?” Robb asked with an affectionate pat on his wolf’s head.

\----------

The camp was stirring when he returned. His uncle had taken up his usual post on guard. He always did this whenever Robb left camp without an escort, sometimes even when he had an escort, especially if it was not one of his uncle choosing.

Having the Blackfish by his side had kept Robb going when things were at their darkest. The old knight had all the stubbornness to fight on when Robb had lost the will, when everything that had happened at that bloody wedding had crowded in on his mind and made him long to claw at his own face until the memories would disperse. Brynden Tully had been the one to pick him up during these times and his methods had not always been kind. He would remind Robb of his lady mother’s sacrifice and how refusing to go on would make her actions wasted. 

“Uncle,” Robb said affectionately as he passed. 

The Blackfish nodded, but did not ask any questions of Winterfell out here in the open. That would be something left for when any ears potentially listening in could be vouched for. If there was one thing Robb had learnt then it was trust naught but a few. 

One of those whom he counted within his most loyal ranks made her way towards him as soon as he made it into the cave.

“Lady Mormont, how may I help?” he asked.

“Your Grace, the little Princess is asking for you.”

“I will be along to see her shortly,” Robb said. “Will you join me whilst I break my fast?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

They settled on the low rough cut benches that had been laid along one side of the main chamber of the cave complex. A long trestle table had been hewn for his men to eat off. A large firepit had been dug just to the bottom of the table, where a cauldron was hung over a fire at all times. The benefits of hiding out in the Wolfswood was the easy access to wood and game. They had been lucky, too, that they had been here for the summer. Robb would not like to be living here when winter set in. It would be a hand to mouth living in Winterfell, even with the stocks and the glass gardens, let alone the deprivation and starvation that would be inevitable if he was still stationed here.

He shook his head to clear the doubts away. There was time yet for all that late summer snow had fallen. Rashness would win him nothing, he had already learnt that the hard way. He had been patient thus far, he could afford to be patient for a little while longer.

“How has the princess settled in?” Robb asked Lady Mormont once his initial hunger had been slaked. 

“She keeps herself to herself, Your Grace. She has not said much but she’s observing everything around her, almost as if she is seeking out any weakness.”

“Aye, that sounds like a Lannister,” Robb said bitterly. 

“She will find none in myself or my girls, Your Grace. We’ve never been interested in riches, and we have lost too much thanks to her house,” Lady Mormont said, spitting out the side of her mouth.

Robb met her eyes, seeing the raw pain that he felt on a daily basis. No matter how much time passed, the anguish of events at the Twins did not dim. The last view he had glimpsed of his lady mother, a dagger at the throat of old Walder Frey allowing the Smalljon to heave Robb, wounded and bleeding, over his shoulder as Grey Wind had lunged at any Frey who dared get too close, would never leave him. Dacey was already dead by then, her body sprawled grotesquely on the floor of that accursed castle. 

“Nothing would shake House Mormont’s loyalty to the North or House Stark,” Robb said simply, knowing that there were no words that would ease the loss of Dacey.

Lady Mormont gave him one of her grim smiles. The women of Bear Island were not given to frivolity or easy smiles, they were tough and necessarily so. Northern grim he had heard some of his River lords say long ago when he had not yet lost anything, and they would smirk behind their hands when either Maege or Dacey passed, but Robb had recognised their quality straight away and he had not hesitated to take Dacey as one of his personal guards, despite the rumblings over her sex. 

“She is not as at ease as she would like to portray,” Lady Mormont said, breaking in on his thoughts. 

Robb stayed the spoon he had been about to put in his mouth and said, “Go on.”

“She is nervous for all that she tries to hide it, and scared.”

Robb cocked an inquiring brow. 

“She remains huddled the corner allotted to her, and she startles when someone comes in. Nothing too much, but I recognise the signs of worry.”

He nodded and determinedly pulled his mind away from just how scared Sansa must have been, left alone and friendless in King’s Landing.”

“She will not speak beyond the polite towards me, but Jory has been very friendly. If she sees one of us as a friend then we will likely know anything she plans.”

“That is a solid plan,” Robb said approvingly. If he wanted the years of preparation to pay off, then he could not afford to underestimate the Lannister he had in his custody – maid or not. He had trusted too easily once before and it had nearly cost him his life. It had cost him his lady mother and countless others.

\-----------------

Robb stopped in the shadowy entrance to the small chamber allotted to Mormont women and stood silently, observing an unaware Myrcella Baratheon as she sat on a pallet in the corner, furs drawn up over her shoulders.

The pose made her look younger than her years and he felt a momentarily pang of guilt for keeping her locked up and away from her family. He rapidly shoved it aside, reminding himself that Sansa had been much younger when she had been held prisoner by the Lannisters and forced to wed the dwarf. Arya had been younger still when she had disappeared. He could not dwell on Bran or Rickon – not even with those visions when he would pray to the Weirwood trees scattered through the forest.

His heart hardened with the pain of all that he had lost and any sympathy for the little princess dissipated. 

Robb stepped into the small chamber. Bivouacking with a male army could not be easy, but Maege and her daughters never complained, so when they had arrived at this cave complex, Robb has been pleased to be able to offer them a little more privacy. They had used their small space well, organising it so that it made maximum use of available space with little touches here and there that no male soldier would think of having. The small bouquet of wild flowers brought a small smile to his face. Jorelle was keen on flowers for all she could gut you with an axe.

Now the space doubled as a prison as well.

“I believe you wished to speak to me, Your Highness,” he said, his voice echoing slightly and causing Myrcella to startle, her eyes wide and alarmed as they met his. 

However, the cool poise that he remembered from the other day quickly reasserted itself, a haughty expression sitting easily on her face. For all the ignominy of her birth, she wore her ranking well. “Thank you for granting me some of your time, Your Grace,” she replied.

“My pleasure,” he said automatically, moving further into the room and perched on a rocky outcrop that seemed to serve as shelf for the Mormont ladies. 

“I was wondering if you had heard any news from Winterfell?” Myrcella asked.

“No,” Robb said. “Should I have done?”

She frowned at that, a puzzled expression puckering the scar that ran down one side of her face. She had been a pretty little girl, he remembered. Very like Queen Cersei, but softer as befitted her young age. Now, he supposed that some would considered her looks ruined. A small braid wrapped itself around her head, confining the silky fall of hair that hid the small stub of ear that he had glimpsed briefly out in the Wolfswood. The deep scar on her cheek had faded to a thick ridge of white skin that detracted from the gentle prettiness that she’d once had. Now her face had a harshness that might seem ill at ease on a young maid’s face, but it gave a hint of steel, which warned that this girl was a survivor. 

“You have not sent a ransom demand?” she asked, confusion clear in her tone.

Robb laughed. “Why, no, Your Highness. I am not willing to advertise my presence to your family just yet.”

“But-” Myrcella started to say before breaking off. He watched fascinated as she cleared her face, an indifferent expression replacing her bemusement. “Just what do you plan on doing with me?” 

“Right now? Nothing,” he said. “You were a lucky discovery and play into my hands nicely. If everything goes according to plan, then you will give me extra leverage.”

“Leverage,” she whispered to herself before looking up at him. “And what exactly are your plans?”

He smiled sardonically. “That would be telling, Princess. I learnt the hard way not to believe my position secure, especially where your family is concerned.”

Myrcella looked away, red staining her cheeks and Robb was surprised to note that it was not embarrassment but shame. A moment of silence fell between them and he watched as she smoothed the furs down, a crease between her eyebrows, before turning back to him.

“My uncle does not know I am alive then?” She said, a sad expression pulling her lips down.

“No.” Robb said before debating whether to tell her anything else, but her woebegone face had him offering more. “He continues to have men search the forest for you, though.”

He almost swore when he saw how that titbit of news lit up her face. If she needed any motivation to escape the cave then he had just handed it to her on a platter. “Do not get your hopes up, my lady, I have men maintaining strong security around my position. Even if you did manage to sneak past my guards, I’d bet on Grey Wind to track you before any of your uncle’s men were able to find you.”

Frustration settled over her features, her still posture betrayed by her hands which twisted in her furs. “What do you hope to achieve?”

“Everything,” Robb said decisively. He could feel his face hardening, determination stiffening his jaw and tightening his lips. “I will regain all that was taken away from me inch by inch if needs be.”

“My grandfather bested you once. What makes you think he will not do so again?”

She flinched and jumped back as Robb leapt to his feet, anger making it impossible for him to remain seated. “Your grandfather beat me through treachery and foul means because he could not defeat me any other way. He could only get the better of a green boy of five-and-ten through underhand means and massacre, so what makes you think he can best a hardened man of three-and-twenty, who has learnt never to take any position for granted?”

The little Lannister princess visibly gulped, uneasy in the face of his anger, but even through his rage, he admired how she straightened her spine and tilted her chin defiantly. “My grandfather has never lost. He has crushed all his enemies under his foot and made them regret ever crossing swords with him.”

“But Tywin Lannister has never faced a man with nothing left to regret,” Robb said, the image of his lady mother suddenly at the front of his mind. Desperation was writ on her face, her need to get her only remaining son out of the charnel house the wedding feast had become, but for all Lady Catelyn’s anguish, her hand not wavered in holding the knife against Lord Walder’s throat. It was a strange thing to remember, but his mother had died as she had lived – with a backbone of steel. Her son could only hope to honour that strength.

Pain at the unbidden memory, Robb turned from the little princess, his hands clenching with the wave of agony and anger that overwhelmed him. He need to leave before he either lashed out or broke down. As he stalked away, he did not look at Myrcella or offer any polite words. He was not sure he could so without the desire to harm her as her family had harmed his.


	4. Unwise Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah - I am *so* sorry for how long this update has taken to write. I'm looking to try and concentrate this fic over the next couple of months so I hope to have a few more updates for you in a much shorter space of time.
> 
> This remains unbeta'd so please do forgive any mistakes.

**Myrcella**

 

Myrcella thought it was possible that she was slowly going out of her mind. When she had believed that Robb Stark was holding her just long enough to collect a ransom from her uncle, she had been able to cope with being cooped up in such a small space. After all, it was not for long. However, since he had informed her that she was to remain his hostage indefinitely, any ability to deal with her confined quarters had dissipated.

Pacing had become a favourite occupation like the caged lion she was. She would map out the route of the small rocky chamber, counting steps from side to another, from one direction to another. She knew the numbers off the top of her head and now counted as she paced from habit. But it kept her mind busy to a certain extent.

As Myrcella passed the small pallet she slept on, she glanced briefly at the small tally she had started. Fifteen precise lines ran straight and true down the rocky wall above where her head lay every night to mark the days since she had spoken to Robb Stark and realised that her stay here would be a lengthy one. It was not yet a moon’s turn since she had disappeared in the Wolfswood but it felt like a lifetime.

“I am still confused as to how you have not worked a groove into the floor,” a voice from the door said.

“Jory!” Myrcella replied, joy lighting up at her face at the presence of the one person here who was friendly.

Jory was often her only source of human contact – friendly or otherwise. Maege Mormont was gruff whereas Lyra Mormont did not bother to hide her contempt at Myrcella’s presence. She was a Lannister and someone to be despised in Lyra’s eyes. In fact, Myrcella was never more grateful than when Lyra was not there as she made Myrcella uncomfortable with her hostile looks and biting remarks. Lady Mormont would ignore her daughter’s behaviour, leaving only Jory to scold her.

“Did you see him?” Myrcella asked eagerly.

Jory nodded but bit her lip, her downcast expression needing no words.

“He refused?” she said despondently.

“Aye. Said you probably had a tricky plan in that Lannister head of yours.”

It took Myrcella a moment to tamp down the bitter bile that rose at the remark. As if it were only Lannisters who did bad things and could not be trusted. Her grandfather could never have planned the Red Wedding without the help of Walder Frey and Roose Bolton, but that seemed to have been lost on Robb Stark.

“I’m sorry,” Jory said, coming over and placing a comforting hand on Myrcella’s shoulder. “I really did try.”

Somehow Myrcella managed to summon a smile she did not feel. “I have no doubts that you did your best. It was a silly thing to ask really.”

The small rocky chamber felt even more like a prison than it had before as she looked around, her heart sinking at dim light that was cast by the torch that burned in the wall. The air smelt musty and a little damp and there was always a chill on Myrcella’s skin. It was impossible to get warm in this place. A fire was only lit in the main cave chamber, the small chambers that sprouted off the back of the cave system were too small with not enough air to feed a fire and sustain people.

She had desperately hoped to get to walk outside, to feel the sun, weak as it was here in the North, on her skin. Her eyes needed to see something other than grey stone walls. Her nose almost wrinkled up at the prospect of the fresh pine-laded air that it longed to breath, but instead she was confined to this small, dank room.

 _A caged lion indeed_ , she thought bitterly.

 

\-------------

 

Not sleeping had become a nightly occurrence for Myrcella. Her body did not get enough physical activity and her brain was always working overtime as she attempted to think of escape plans and ruses that might see her gain her freedom. She would flee south then. The heaving cesspit that was King’s Landing had never seemed quite so attractive as it did right now. Or she could journey on to Storm’s End. She was rarely allowed there but maybe with her uncle Jaime as her guard, she would be allowed to spend some time in the place she was meant to rule.

Tommen had named her Lady of Storm’s End but Myrcella had spent little time there. It wasn’t safe, her mother always told her, the houses were yet to be fully subdued. There was also the matter of her uncle Stannis on Dragonstone. For all his lack of manpower, her uncle was a brooding presence over Tommen’s throne. He had enough men to defend the small fortress island from being overrun, too. A blockade had been put in place, but Stannis managed to trade with Essos instead, maintaining his household and keeping himself afloat. More than once, Myrcella had heard Stannis’ stubbornness being cursed by one or another members of her family. He would not disappear to Essos, licking his wounds and sulking for the remainder of his life. No, he continued to send out ravens signed as the One True King of Westeros, and looking to instigate a fresh rebellion, proclaiming her and her brother’s illegitimacy. Myrcella scoffed at the rumours. She was a Baratheon, a true daughter of King Robert, and she held Storm’s End to prove it.

 _Are you sure? You have always felt closer to your Lannister roots_ _and you hear what they say about your looks. There is nothing of the Baratheon in you,_ the voice whispered in her ear.

Myrcella huffed and turned over, almost as if such an action would silence the voice of doubt. She had found it easy to dismiss the rumours when she had been amongst her family. They were scurrilous and patently false, but here, where her worst fears leered at her in the dark, she struggled to silence the doubts.

It was true, she and Tommen did look all Lannister. Even Joffrey had. However, it did not mean they were not trueborn children of Robert. Lannister genes were strong, everyone knew that.

However, she had heard the jeers the few times she had been allowed out of Mormont alcove. _Bastard princess_ , she had heard hissed as she passed, _Unnatural daughter of incest_. The whisperings could not be correct. There is no way her mother or her uncle Jaime would lay together as man and wife. They were twins, close yes, as she had seen other twins be, but that did not mean anything unnatural had happened between them.

Myrcella got to her feet, unable to stand the doubts that crowded her mind any longer. She looked wildly around the small chamber. Maege was on watch tonight, which left Lyra and Jory sleeping on the pallet they shared, arms entwined to share body heat. Lying over a boulder was Jory’s cloak, a thick warm bear skin with a large hood that kept her friend’s face in shadow.

A thought ran through her head. She could fool the guard that was ever present outside her chamber if she wore that. Jory was a tad taller than Myrcella but nothing that would be noticeable if she borrowed the cloak. A small part of her wondered if she could repay the other girl’s kindness with this deceit, but she dismissed the guilt quickly. It is not as if she was fleeing, she just wanted some air.

_But you could. If you remain undetected and make it out of the cave, you could go._

The idea was tempting until she remembered that she had no supplies, it was the middle of the night, and she would be fleeing into the danger that was the Wolfswood with nothing to sustain herself. There was also Grey Wind to think of. The wolf would find her.

No, it was better to stick to getting some fresh air and coming back.

_Besides, you could always take the cloak again another night. A night when you have prepared yourself for a flight back to Winterfell and safety._

A smile crept across her features. If this went well then this could be her way out. A chance to thwart Robb Stark and make it back to her family. Her heart sped up at the idea making her extra sensitive to everything around her as she crept through the darkened main cave on her way to the outside.

As she made it to the mouth of the cave, the smell of the forest was the first thing that hit her after her prolonged captivity. It was crisp and fresh in a way the damp mouldy smell of the caves could never be. Myrcella took a deep breath and filled her lungs with the cold air, feeling as if she were driving away the dank depression of the past days.

Creeping forward, she peeped out of the cave, the blood pounding in her ears as she tip toed further out. When she made it to the first trees without being challenged by the watch she could see dotted here and there with torches, she let out a sigh of relief.

Leaning back against a tree, she grinned crazily up at the night sky she could see in patches through the canopy. Mayhaps this would not be difficult after all.

“Going somewhere, Your Highness?”

She spun, tripped on a tree root, and grabbed onto the rough bark to steady herself. A shadow moved forward but she did not need to see the russet hair or the startling blue eyes to know who it was who had followed her.

“Just getting some fresh air, Your Grace,” she said, cursing the breathlessness of her words.

His arm stretched forward and tugged down the hood that covered her distinctive hair. “It was a good plan, I will give you that.”

There was no way in seven hells Myrcella was going to admit that the thought of escaping had occurred to her. She would not put it past this man to clap her in chains if she did. “I am not sure of what it is you imply.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said, the sarcasm withering.

Myrcella folded her arms defensively. “If you _are_ implying that I was trying to escape then you must think me little more than an idiot. Its pitch black, I have no food or supplies, and am deep in a forest of which I have no knowledge. I may desire to leave here but I do not desire it more than death.” Her eyes caught the twitch of his lips and she huffed. “I am _so_ pleased that I amuse you, Your Grace.”

He spread his arms out wide, a smile definitely present on his face now. “How am I meant to take this adventure of yours other than an attempt to escape?”

“For what it is: a desperate attempt to breathe some fresh air. I am not used to being cooped up in a small cave for weeks on end.”

“Ah, so your request via Jorelle Mormont was an actual appeal and not some stratagem,” he stated.

“Believe it or not, yes! I need some activity!”

He regarded her for several uncomfortable moments, almost as if letting the silence drag on would somehow reveal any lies she may be concealing. Behind him, the large shadow of his direwolf paced to and fro, its tail swishing agitatedly.

Myrcella vaguely remembered some of the rumours of the Red Wedding that had travelled down to Dorne. They had spoken of Robb Stark turning into a wolf and massacring guests, of having to be killed to protect the remainder of the people in the hall at the Twins. Back in sunny warm Dorne, she had scoffed at the rumours, dismissing them easily as she remembered the boy who had been kind to her back at Winterfell.

But here, in the cold and forbidding North, she thought back on them and had to suppress a shiver. Could Robb Stark turn himself into a wolf? Or had the rumours been an exaggeration of the bond he shared with the beast that roamed at his side. She had heard the stories from the ancient woman who lived at Winterfell and who had turned Myrcella’s blood cold when as she recited her tales to entertain Sansa and her ladies as they sewed. Stories that spoke of the Kings of Winter of old who would practice blood sacrifices to their gods in the Weirwood trees as well as of skinchangers who lived beyond the Wall with animals in thrall to their abilities. Is this the kind of bond that the Stark in front of her shared with his wolf?

Almost as if he read her mind, Grey Wind turned his yellow eyes on Myrcella and she flinched back into her cloak at the way wolf’s gaze pierced through her.

“Very well,” Robb said, startling Myrcella. “I accede to your request.”

She dragged her eyes away from the hypnotic stare of the wolf and back to his master’s face. “My request?” she asked.

Myrcella stared astonished as he laughed. “Have you forgotten what you wanted so badly you stole Jorelle Mormont’s cloak and snuck out here?”

The colour flooded into her cheeks as she silently cursed the unsettling affect the direwolf had on her, scattering her wits and making her slow. “Of course,” she said, her voice stiff with embarrassment. “My thanks, Your Grace.”

He nodded and held his arm out. “May I escort you back to your chambers?”

Against her will, she smiled in amusement. “My chambers?” she said. “Why how appealing you make my prison sound.”

“I could yet decide to chain you up,” he said.

Myrcella narrowed her eyes angrily. “Now, wait a moment, you just-” She trailed off as she saw the teasing glint in his eyes.

Taking a breath to steady her nerves, she placed her hand gracefully on his arm, as if she were going for a stroll around the gardens of the Red Keep. “You are unkind to tease me so.”

His gloved hand covered hers for the merest moment. “You are right, Your Highness. Please accept my apologies.”

Giving him a doubting glance, she decided that he was being sincere and found herself confused. She could understand him when he was suspicious and stern, the anger towards her barely concealed beneath the surface. She expected that. He had every right to hate and resent her for what her family had done to his. However, she was not prepared for the re-emergence of the natural charm that had struck her when she had first met him all those years ago.

Gathering her composure back around her, Myrcella looked behind them as they approached the cave. “Your wolf, it does not follow?”

“No,” he said. “Grey Wind is out hunting tonight. You are lucky you did not seek to run,” he said casually, with a quick look down at her.

She balked at the thought of being tracked by such a beast. “Does Grey Wind eat manflesh?” she asked impulsively.

“Oh yes,” Robb said with a wolfish grin in her direction. “He became used to the taste of man on the battlefield. I believe he has eaten many a Lannister bannerman.”

She shivered involuntarily. “You needn’t worry, Your Highness, I have informed him of your value. He would only take a nip out of you for taste.”

“Oh,” she replied faintly, wondering just what he meant about telling Grey Wind of her importance that she missed the teasing glance he sent her.

 

\-----------------

 

Robb Stark had been true to his word and it was amazing just how much an hour a day outside lifted Myrcella’s spirits. Lady Mormont and Jory were usually assigned to take her outside and she and Jory would frolic through the trees, chasing each other and laughing. They were giddy times, which allowed her to forget just how precarious her situation was and she would return to the cave with her cheeks glowing and a grin on her face.

She pulled on the thick leather gloves that Lady Mormont had found for her and tightened the scarf that she had knitted herself from borrowed needles and wool in anticipation of her trip outside. As she heard footsteps outside, she swirled her fur cloak around her and said to Jory, “It’s about time, I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“My apologies, Your Highness, I was delayed by a returning patrol.”

Her head whipped up and Myrcella found herself confronting the taller and much more masculine figure of Robb Stark.

“Oh, is Jory not able to take me out today?” she asked before she was able to stop herself.

“I am sorry to disappoint you but Jorelle and her mother are out hunting today. I am afraid you’ll have to do with my company.”

Noticing the slight pique in his voice, she smiled. “I am honoured you could spare me the time.”

“Very charming, Your Highness.”

Myrcella laughed then. “I can be when I wish.”

Instead of the answering smile, Robb’s eyes darkened. “I bet you can,” he said bitingly.

Stomach sinking at the now stern expression on his face, Myrcella followed quietly behind as he turned to lead the way out of the door. Any pleasure she had in the outing was dissipating fast.

She followed subdued, always a step or two behind, as he stalked through the cave system to the entrance. Wherever he went, his men would stop what they were doing, dipping their heads in reverence and sneaking curious looks at her presence at their king’s side.

Once they were outside, Robb snapped his fingers and Grey Wind emerged from the shadows of the trees to pad softly as his side. There was such an ease between the two that Myrcella could not help but observe it as they walked in silence through the forest.

The strained atmosphere of this walk outside played on her mind as they continued on. There was none of the fun, playfulness of her romps with Jory. This was almost painful and had her blurting out words just to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Are you more comfortable with him now?” she asked, jerking her head in Grey Wind’s direction.

An eyebrow rose at her question. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, his voice cold.

“N-nothing,” she stumbled before taking a deep breath and continuing, “It is just that Jeyne sa-”

Horrified, Myrcella broke off abruptly, her hand coming up to clap over her mouth as she stared at him with wide eyes.

He did nothing but look at her for a moment, a stunned expression on his face as if he couldn’t quite believe that she had brought up Jeyne Westerling. She couldn’t believe that she actually had.

“What exactly did Jeyne say and when did you meet her?”

“It’s rather cold out today, don’t you think?” she said rather desperately. “I am feeling rather fatigued, too. Mayhaps we should return to the cave.”

As she whirled around, keen to try and head back to the cave and put some distance between them, his hand shot out and grasped her wrist. “I would appreciate it if you would answer my question, Myrcella!”

It was the first time he had used her name rather than one of the mocking titles he usually addressed her with and she wished it was in a friendly manner rather than a biting command.

She shrunk back a little from where his eyes bored into hers as if he drill into her mind and extract the information that he wished to know.

Myrcella puffed out a shaking sigh before she leaned against one of the trees. “I saw her when she was married.”

“Married?” Robb asked confused.

“You were thought dead and it was deemed unsafe for your queen to remain unwed for too long. It might be remarked upon or damaging rumours of a pregnancy might spread.

His eyes hardened as he took in her news and Myrcella wished she had just been able to keep her mouth shut instead of needing to break the silence between them. This conversation was much more uncomfortable than the previous situation had been.

“Pregnant? Was she pregnant with my child? We had hoped so much,” he said, the last part of the sentence said so softly that she almost did not hear it.

She shook her head. “No, Your Grace. She was not pregnant,” she said and then faltered before deciding to leave it there.

“What are you keeping from me?” he asked, clearly catching her hesitation.

“Nothing,” she said quickly but his eyebrow rose, clearly unimpressed by her attempt to cover her own indecision so she continued on quickly and quietly, “She could not have been pregnant. Sybell Spicer was giving her Tansy tea.”

Robb swore then, tuning and kicking at a dead branch that lay under a tree. “That stupid fertility potion that she insisted Jeyne took _of course_ it was Tansy,” he said bitterly.

Silence fell between them again, this time not uncomfortable but thick with emotion and pain as Robb stared unseeingly down onto the mulch that littered the floor of the forest. Myrcella shuffled towards him, unable to bear just how lost and sad he looked. She placed a wavering hand gently on his shoulder.

“I’m sorr-” she started to say but came to a startled halt as he shook her hand off and turned eyes blazing with anger up to meet hers.

“I do not require or wish for your pity,” he snarled. “I do not desire anything from you other than the leverage your presence gives me in freeing my home from the clutches of your dwarf uncle and in pushing you and your evil family out of my kingdom.”

Unbidden tears filled her eyes at his words and she defiantly blinked them back unwilling to give him the pleasure of knowing how his words had wounded her. She was not sure why she was hurt. She was an enemy to him and he was definitely an enemy of hers. Mayhaps it was the gentle teasing he had deployed against her last time they had interacted. The fact that he had allowed her to walk outside in the fresh air once a day since then. It had told her that the charm and kindness that had she had first seen in Robb Stark when she had met him all those years ago, still existed. But his bitter words now did nothing but reinforce that there could be nothing between them other than distrust and anger.

“Don’t worry,” she spat back. “I do not plan on giving you any.”

She turned away from him and headed back towards the cave, keen to leave Robb Stark far behind her.

 


	5. Complicated Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters. It takes me a while to write chapters these days.
> 
> This remains unbeta'd so please excuse any mistakes.

The visit from Galbart Glover could not have come at a better time for Robb. He needed the distraction of discussing military strategy to get away from Myrcella Baratheon’s remarks about Jeyne. They had weighed heavily on his mind long after he’d stalked back to the cave system and disappeared into the small cave that served as his own personal chambers.

Therefore Lord Glover’s timing had been most welcome. A chance for him to sweep away bitter memories and concentrate on what mattered the most; regaining his house and his castle.

“Your Grace,” Lord Glover said, bowing deeply before they removed to Robb’s personal chambers with only Brynden and Lady Maege in attendance.

“Lord Glover, I had not thought to see you quite so soon.”

Apart from Maege Mormont and Robett Glover, both of whom were deemed dead after they had been officially missing for so many years, Robb sought to keep those lords who remained loyal distant from him. Not through a lack of trust – nay, he knew these were houses who would die for House Stark, but because it would arose suspicion from the Lannisters if their northern vassals kept disappearing at regular intervals. Instead, they had a system where they would send a trusted intermediary who would usually be a lesser scion of the house to exchange news and reports with Robb and his retinue. So Lord Glover coming unannounced was highly irregular.

“I did not look to come now, but I have received news from Howland Reed and sought to bring it to you at once.”

“What does he write?”

“The Lannisters have begun mobilising.”

Robb raised an eyebrow in query.

“He’s seen an increase in Lannister men riding up the Kingsroad towards Winterfell. They waylaid one messenger and he had letters from Tywin Lannister to Tyrion with the news that Devan Lannister is to lead a battalion of men to take over the search for the missing princess.”

A wolfish grin spread across Robb’s face. He couldn’t help but be pleased at the prospect of facing Lannister men. The fact that he was pre-warned would give Robb further advantages. His mind instantly started to assess all possible strategies he might need if various scenarios played out.

“We need to send a man to Lord Manderly,” Robb said to his uncle. “His men man Moat Cailin for the most part. He will need to prepare them to potentially subdue any Lannister men positioned with them and to hold the castle if necessary.”

“Before Devan Lannister comes?” The Blackfish asked.

“No, after.”

Brynden looked at him in confusion and asked, “For what purpose?”

“We need our men in place in case events move too quickly for us react. I want Lord Manderly to seal off Moat Cailin immediately if I send word for him to do so and not have to spend a few days putting everything in place before he can do so. ”

The Blackfish nodded but the worried look on Lord Glover’s face did not dissipate. It was obvious that he worried about more Lannister men coming into the North.

“Are you not concerned, Your Grace? If Devan Lannister should come across you in the woods with this much larger force of Westermen then we could lose everything,” Lord Glover said.

“They won’t find us. The trail went cold weeks ago.”

“But still, they might penetrate the forest a lot further than Tyrion Lannister has ever sought to do so. This force under Devan Lannister has the manpower to do such a thing,” Lord Glover said.

Robb looked around at the small band of loyal retainers. It was clear that this development unnerved them. “I expected them to do something if the little princess remained unaccounted for. They could do not leave the heir to the throne missing indefinitely. However, it will take them weeks to work their way to where we are and I do not plan to let them search for that long.”

“So what exactly do you hope to gain out of this situation, Your Grace?” Lady Mormont asked.

“I plan on drawing the Lion from his comfy den in the south,” he said dramatically with much relish.

Lord Glover drew in his breath sharply before he remonstrated with Robb. “Are you insane, Your Grace? You want to bring Lord Tywin into the North? This could spell the end of everything we have spent the past years building for.”

Robb did not blame Galbart Glover for his reaction. Tywin Lannister’s reputation had only grown in the years since the Red Wedding. He proven once more that he would deal ruthlessly with anyone who stood in the way of his family ambitions. Then there was the fact that he had the money and power to make sure any potential rebellions were stymied before they even came into existence.

“We were always going to have to deal with Tywin Lannister at some point,” Robb pointed out. “I would rather it was on my terms and at my bidding.”

“The disappearance or death of Devan Lannister will certainly bring him here,” Brynden said. “And it has already been speculated that he is to come North sooner rather than later. He is said to be displeased with the lack of an heir for Winterfell.”

Robb’s fists automatically clenched at the thought of Sansa being naught more than a Lannister brood mare. His biggest regret always remained not swapping the Kingslayer for her all those years ago. However, he had been young and afraid of losing a key asset for a mere female relative. He had lost Jaime Lannister anyway to his mother, who had always known the importance of family and had wanted nothing more than to have her girls back.

“And bringing him to the North now serves what purpose?” Lord Glover asked.

“It gives us the opportunity to negotiate from a strengthened position. The capture of the princess changed my plans. Before, I had aimed to close off Moat Cailin and make it impossible for Lord Tywin to move an army up here to oust me from power. I would also have had Tyrion Lannister as a hostage. Had events played out in this order then I would have been relying on the strength of Moat Cailin to keep the anger of the Old Lion in check as it has always kept the North safe. However, there were several drawbacks to that plan.”

“Drawbacks?” Lord Glover said. “If you hold Moat Cailin then no one can take the North from the South.”

I held Moat Cailin once before but still managed to lose the North,” Robb said. “And Lord Tywin is the kind of man who would have noted this precedent. There is every chance that if I closed Moat Cailin off then he could follow Theon Greyjoy’s example and invade from the Stony Shore. He has the gold and the power to strike a deal with the Ironborn to pass peacefully past the Iron Isles. However, Myrcella falling into my hands has been most opportune. She is a bigger asset than a despised and deformed second son. Now, I hold a much stronger hand and events are playing out that could place yet another Lannister into my grasp.”

“But bringing Lord Tywin here could ruin all of that, Your Grace. No doubt he will bring yet more Westermen with him,” Maege Mormont said reasonably.

“If I didn’t have men already stationed inside Winterfell, I would be more worried,” Robb said. “However, I do and this gives me a bigger advantage than any number of Lannister men can. If I take the castle as planned but with Lord Tywin inside then we can guarantee the return of the North to the Starks and its secession from the other six kingdoms without any Lannister reprisals. The Bastard on the Iron Throne would sign away the North without hesitation if it meant getting his grandfather back.”

Silence greeted his plan but Robb was not concerned. He had spent hours over the past few days going through every ramification and he knew that drawing Tywin Lannister to Winterfell was sound. As sound as it was ever going to get anyway. There was always going to be a certain about of risk attached to however he regained Winterfell and his land. The North had lost a lot of men during the Red Wedding and many lords and heirs had languished in southern gaols for years until it was deemed that any danger of rebellion had passed. Robb had waited this out, biding his time patiently and putting stratagems in place, and he knew that this latest one was good.

“It’s a gamble, Your Grace,” Lord Glover said once he’d taken time to mull it over.

“It’s all a gamble, Lord Glover,” Robb replied.

Galbart Glover scratched his chin and said, “Aye, you are right in that, Your Grace.”

“Would it not be best to take Lord Tywin’s head?” Lady Mormont asked. “Send a message that no one is mightier than the North?”

“There is nothing I desire more, if not for my Lady Mother and your gallant Dacey, Maege, but I trust in Lord Tywin to uphold his word a lot more than I trust Cersei Lannister to do so.”

“Chaos in the South could benefit us and there definitely would be chaos if the Old Lion died. The Queen Mother and the Tyrells would most likely bicker over the boy on the throne and that could play into our hands,” the Blackfish said. “But there is every possibility that it could backfire, too. Lord Tywin is as cunning as they come, but that bitch Cersei is pure wildfire and even more stubborn that her father. Aye, my nephew is correct, it is better to deal with lion you know than the unknown quantity that is Cersei Lannister in control.”

Glover and Maege muttered their agreement to that statement.

Discussion over, Robb went with his three loyal vessels for the midday meal. The hunting parties had successfully brought in a couple of deer and the smell of roasting venison had filled the cave system all morning. Most of his men were gathered in the large outer cave chamber, milling about and licking their lips at the prospect of such a luxury. They had been living a hand to mouth existence for such a long time that all those who followed in his train knew when to appreciate a good meal. Only those who were out on patrol or watch were absent and Robb made a mental note to make sure a section of venison was put aside for them.

A flash of gold had him turning his head to the left where he saw Myrcella was already seated in between the Mormont girls, chatting gaily to Jorelle. She paid no attention to some of the dark looks that were sent her way by some of the men, hostile to any Lannister after all they had suffered.

Almost as if feeling the weight of his stare, she glanced over in his direction, her green eyes meeting his for a moment before she looked away. There was a hint of colour in her cheeks that hadn’t resided there prior to her gaze catching his and he couldn’t help but wonder if their previous meeting played on her mind as much as it played on his.

Robb has spent nights mulling over the words that had been said between them as well as the tears that had remained unshed in her eyes before she had defiantly blinked them away. Then there were her words about Jeyne that as much as he wanted to push them away they wouldn’t go. All he could think was that Jeyne had spoken about him to Myrcella. That even at her second wedding she had still spared a thought for him.

His emotions concerning Jeyne remained confused even after all these years. He had thought his heart would break when Brynden had first told him about the Spicers scheming behind his back. How Jeyne had been little more than a honey trap designed to push the Westerling fortunes forward no matter who won in the war between Houses Stark and Lannister. He knew his uncle had told him about Jeyne’s defiance against her mother after the Red Wedding – of how she had clung to the little crown that he’d had made for her, and refused to be seen as anything other than his queen – as a kindness, but deep down he had wished he’d never known. It would have been so much easier if he had thought that Jeyne had betrayed him also. The hurt would have been so much easier to push away as his feelings would have morphed into bitterness for thinking that she had loved him too.

However, the pain had faded over time, the betrayal coming to be nought more than a lesson for him as he rebuilt himself and his forces with the focus of regaining the Starks rightful place in the North. Jeyne, too, had slipped to into nothing more than a memory. The sweet girl who had soothed him whilst he was injured and who he had lost his honour for.

He would always have bittersweet emotions around her – his marriage to her had cost him everything, but that was not to be laid at her door. No, it had been his decision to break his promise to Walder Frey keen to uphold the honour that his lord father had always drummed into him. There had also been thoughts of his lady mother who had resented the presence of Jon Snow within Winterfell. He’d had no desire to lay such a dilemma in his own lady wife’s lap. Then there had been the fact that she was so sweet and comely compared to any of the Frey women. She had been easy to love and love her he had. At the time, the way forwarded concerning Jeyne had appeared to be so simple.

It had turned out to be anything but.

Looking away from Myrcella who was studiously avoiding his eyes now and pushing his thoughts of the past away, Robb turned his attention back to those of his lords who flocked around him, but not before he beckoned Bors, one of the cooks, over and made sure venison was saved for those men missing out on the impromptu feast.

\-----------

It was a couple of days before Robb laid eyes on the little princess again. He was returning from seeing off the latest patrol groups, Grey Wind at his side, when she shot out from behind a tree and hurtled headlong into him. His arms shot out and grasped her shoulders, holding her steady.

“Oh,” she exclaimed warily as her eyes rose and she saw whom she had run into.

“Your Highness!” Jory called out from somewhere behind her and still hidden amongst the trees. “Myrcella, where are you?”

There was a thread of panic in the Mormont girl’s voice and Robb couldn’t work out if it was because she was worried she had lost a valuable hostage for her king or because of the potential danger to the princess from some his more opportunistic and less obedient men.

“I’m here, Jory,” Myrcella called back, turning her head over her shoulder so her words would carry.

Robb could hear Jory crashing through the undergrowth as she obviously hurried to catch up with her speedy companion.

“Lost your guard, Your Highness?” Robb said with a raised eyebrow. “Mayhaps I’ll have to review your current arrangements if you make a habit of slipping free like this.”

“It was not on purpose,” Myrcella said with an adorable pout before she shoved his hands off her shoulders and folded her arms defensively.

Robb’s lips twitched at the feisty display of defiance but he maintained his stern expression, enjoying how much her eyes flashed when angered by him.

“Hmm…should I take your word for it, Your Highness? Your family doesn’t have the best track record in that area.”

She scowled up at him then, red staining her cheeks and her hands clenching into two fists. “My word is as good as yours,” she hissed, rage causing her voice to shake.

Stepping in closer to her, Robb tapped her cheek carelessly with one finger before he said, “See that it is or these little visits in the forest will be at end. You would not get far, sweetling, and I am not above shackling you to a wall.”

The princess’ body stiffened at the threat but before she could open her mouth to say anything, Jorelle Mormont finally found them, crashing through a small bush and stopping, her mouth agape, at the tense scene before her.

“Your Grace,” Jory said, stumbling a little over her words.

Robb continued to stare down at Myrcella for a brief moment before he stepped back from her once more and turned his attention to Jory. “Ah, Jorelle, there you are!” he said pleasantly. “I happened to come across your escapee.”

“I was _not_ escaping,” Myrcella muttered irritably.

“Oh no, Your Grace, I am sure Myrcella…I mean Her Highness was not trying to escape,” Jory said earnestly. “We were just playing and happened to get separated.”

Robb could not help but reflect on what he had been doing at sixteen, wearing a too heavy crown and losing his life as he attempted to play a much more dangerous game. How he wished he’d been scampering through the Wolfswood instead.

However, instead of expressing his bitter thoughts, he just nodded in Jory’s direction and said, “Carry on.”

With a brief glance in Myrcella’s direction, he strode away, clicking for Grey Wind to follow.

It wasn’t until later that night that Robb was able to reflect a little on the encounter. The need to rile the little princess up had taken him aback but he was quick to dismiss it as nothing more than a continuation of their previous encounter. He ignored the small voice in his head that wondered if that was all it was.                           


	6. A Full Spectrum of Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in between chapters. August was taken up with frantically writing for the Jon x Sansa Remix which is currently posting over on Livejournal. And as I am also hosting that fest, most of my spare time has gone towards all the admin needed to run it.
> 
> Once again, this chapter isn't beta'd so please excuse any mistakes.

Myrcella was left angry and shaken by her latest encounter with Robb Stark. She was unsure of why he had infuriated her so much but he had. His snide comments regarding her family was nothing new. She had heard them all before and in a much cruder manner than the words Robb had used. She was used to deflecting them with a serene smile that conveyed her contempt not the uncontrollable rage that had coursed through her.

“What was that about?” Jory asked her in a whisper even though Robb Stark had left them a good few minutes beforehand.

“He accused me of trying to escape,” she replied, the residual anger causing her voice to shake a little.

“You looked as if you were going to strike him,” Jory said in an awestruck tone.

“I came very close,” Myrcella said with a wry smile.

“Myrcella!” Jory exclaimed with a wide-eyed shocked stare.

It was a much needed reminder of the esteem that all those who surrounded her – even her one friend – held Robb Stark in. It shouldn’t come as too much of a shock, he was their King in the North after all and a Stark, but Myrcella wasn’t used to the reverence that his subjects showed him. She had grown up the daughter of a king who was as mocked as much as he was loved. Then there was Joffrey, and Myrcella had been grateful that Uncle Tyrion had sent her to Dorne during the early stages of his reign so she hadn’t had to witness too much of it. Tommen, at least, showed some potential of being loved by his subjects; if he could ever come out of the shadow of his grandfather, mother or wife that was. However, none of the three examples of kingship in her family came close to that of Robb or the Starks in general.

She had noticed it whilst in Winterfell. How the Stark retainers would go to Sansa instead of Tyrion, but she had never witnessed it in its true glory until she had been captured. Robb Stark’s followers didn’t have to encamp in a forest and risk everything to try and restore a dead man to his throne, but they did, and they would follow the Young Wolf wherever he led them. Instead of the fear that her grandfather struck into his men, they did so out of love. Love for the personable man who would sit between them at mealtimes, knew all their names and asked for their concerns.

Tywin Lannister would scoff at such behaviour and say it was below the dignity of a scion of House Lannister. Her lady mother, too, would sneer.

No, it was something very peculiar to the North and House Stark and, in her opinion, it was this devotion that made Robb Stark so dangerous.

“Never mind. I would not have dared do so,” Myrcella said with a reassuring smile to her stunned friend.

_Yes, you would,_ said a voice in her head that sounded very like Arianne Martell.

\---------

Myrcella had hoped to continue to be able to avoid Robb Stark. She had been doing it successfully since their conversation about Jeyne Westerling and in light of their last encounter, she had no desire to have another run in with him. However, her luck was decidedly out and she happened across him as she and Jory were setting out for their recreation the next afternoon.

“Lady Jorelle, Your Highness,” he said in greeting as he fell into step with them, Grey Wind pacing quietly at his side as always.

“Your Grace,” Jory replied.

Myrcella kept her greeting to a small nod. Maybe they could avoid another exchange of angry words if she remained silent.

“Thinking of joining the Silent Sisters?” Robb Stark asked, clearly amused.

“No, Your Grace, just trying to be civil.”

“Something you learnt from your lady mother, I am sure,” he shot back.

Myrcella felt the familiar anger rise up once more and she took a look around to see if anyone else was present before taking action. Luckily, only she, Robb and Jory were in sight.

She grabbed hold of his arm and used her leverage and his surprise to swing him around to face her. “Enough!” she said sharply. “I am fed up of your taunts about my family. I have done nothing to deserve them.”

He stared down at her for a tense moment and she could feel her shoulders growing increasingly taut with the stress of the situation. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jory’s eyes rapidly moving from one to the other as she bite her lip nervously.

“Jorelle, leave us!” Robb ordered.

Myrcella gave a pleading look for her friend to disobey her king and stay by her side, but she knew that Jory could not – indeed would not dare – to do that. It would be disobeying her king, a Stark king, for a Lannister hostage. With an apologetic lift of her shoulders, Jory did as her king bid her and left.

“You seek to manhandle me?” Robb said sternly once they were alone.

“I do not seek anything,” she replied. “I just wish to be left alone to enjoy my walk without any snide comments.”

She was embarrassed at just how high and wobbly her voice sounded by the time she had finished speaking. She did not wish to appear weak in front of anybody, but especially Robb Stark. She attempted to blink away the unwanted moisture that had flooded her eyes and dropped her gaze to the floor. She could feel that his own stare did not leave her face.

He released a deep sigh that her looking back up at him and she saw that his eyes had softened. “Please accept my apologies, Your Highness. I do not wish for you to feel embattled whilst you remain with me.”

“Then please stop taunting me, Your Grace. I know what wrongs my family has inflicted upon yours, but I had nothing to do them.”

Robb gave a small smile at that. “You are right. It was very ill done of me.”

Myrcella gave a small nod at that. Everything she had learned about kingship in King’s Landing had not prepared her for the unreserved apology offered. Her father had never apologised and neither had Joffrey. She was sure that Tommen would, but he was stifled by the overbearing personalities that surrounded him. She had sometimes wondered if he would suffocate from the way his every move was dictated to him. She would never have survived in such a situation. Her temper would have gotten the better of her.

Robb held his arm out to her, “To make amends, would you accept my escort for your recreation time today?” he asked.

She was tempted to agree. When Robb Stark was charming he was very difficult to resist. However, his constant barbs and her own anxiety towards her current situation made the prospect of such a walk disagreeable.

“I am rather tired,” she said quietly. “However, I would be grateful if you would escort me back to my chambers, Your Grace. I would not wish to go amongst your men unattended.”

He frowned and asked, “Has anyone dared to offer you insult, Your Grace?”

“Apart from yourself?” she asked, unable to swallow back her words.

However, rather than become angry, Robb let out a laugh. Surprisingly, she found that she remembered the sound from her previous time in Winterfell. Robb had laughed a lot then and she had been entranced by it during the first feast where he had escorted her and sat by her side. Then she realised that she had not heard that laugh since that long ago time in Winterfell and it caused unbidden sadness to spread through her chest.

“Oh, your words slay me, Myrcella,” he said with a grin. “I am unseated by the truth of your words.”

A small smile sat on her lips as she watched the merriment on his face.

_It was a face meant to laugh and smile,_ she thought.

His hand grasped her arm gently as an earnest expression replaced the laughter. “But you are to come to me if my men offer you any insult. I have made it clear that you are to be treated as our guest and we do not insult our guests.”

A shadow passed across his face and she knew with certainty that he was thinking about how, as a guest, he had been betrayed, and she knew that his words were sincere.

“There have been some comments, Your Grace. Not to my face but whispered audibly behind my back. It is nothing.”

And indeed it was more than she had hoped for during those first few days of her captivity. She had feared that she might be used the way Sansa Stark had been by her brother, as an outlet for rage and ridicule.

“It is not nothing,” he said angrily. “I will speak to my captains and make sure the men understand you are to be treated with respect and anything less will be punished.”

She bit her lip. The part of her mind that saw Robb as her enemy was keen to exploit his words. She would be able to use this decree to sow dissent in the ranks. She could lie about unsaid insults and cause men to be punished for things they had not said. As a high-ranking lady of birth, she would most likely be believed over the smallfolk who followed Robb.

But as soon as she thought of it, she dismissed such methods from her mind. She would not reinforce everything that was said about the scions of House Lannister, that they were ruthless and without honour, by behaving in such a manner.

She could practically feel her grandfather’s disappointment in her decision, but that was not Myrcella’s way.

“Please accept my thanks, Your Grace,” she said instead and laid her hand on the arm he offered her.

\-------------

The next few weeks passed quietly for Myrcella. Robb’s command regarding her position had obviously been passed on because none of the whispers followed her around anymore. However, there were still one or two hostile gazes that she caught out the corner of her eye. She was grateful to him for issuing such orders and the angry looks did not bother too much. The North had a reason to hate anyone connected to House Lannister.

She did not see much of Robb during those weeks, either, and she was surprised by how much she noticed his absence. Jory was still her constant companion and a true friendship had blossomed between them; one that she would miss when she was inevitably returned to Winterfell and the South. But she missed the excitement an exchange with Robb Stark brought. The way her blood would fire up and her mind would race for something to retort back.

Something was brewing, she could tell from the anticipation that surged in the camp. The training that took place outside became fiercer and it seemed as if the forge that had been built of loose stone just to the side of the cave entrance was always ringing with the sound of hammering. She wondered why Robb did not worry about the noise carrying, but then again, the trees were so dense in the Wolfswood and the undergrowth was thick and heavy that the sounds were probably smothered.

It felt as if the camp was on the brink of battle but surely they were not going to take Winterfell. She could not imagine that they would be able. She tried to listen to gossip during mealtimes, but it was obvious that everyone had been told to be careful what they said around her.

Her curiosity aroused, Myrcella decided to outright ask Jory what was happening, which led to her friend stammering out denials that left Myrcella more frustrated than previously.

The large outer cave, always so busy, grew sparse in people. During her mealtimes, there was often only the menial staff present. People who made the running of camp easier, but had no role to play in an actual battle.

However, it was not until Robb appeared in the cave, his armour in place, that she knew something was truly happening outside her prison. Her anxiety peaked as she caught his eye and his face remained serious as it observed her. There was no little smile as she had become used to, just a sombre expression that caused her heart to race.

For one awful moment, she realised just why. She was concerned that he was riding out to battle and that she would never see him again. She pulled her eyes away from his and refused to look back at him, even as he heard his command for those with him to ride out. She felt his eyes rest on her face again, but she could not bring herself to look at him.

Surely, she should be rejoicing in the fact that he might not come back alive. That would mean a victory for her family and the real possibility that she would be returned to her uncle’s protection immediately. But the thought of Robb falling in battle brought her no comfort.

_It should,_ she thought to herself fiercely. _It should!_

But it didn’t.

With a murmured excuse, Myrcella fled the table where she had been eating the midday meal with Jory and a couple of camp cooks.

Distressed, she paced the small Mormont chamber, not looking up as Jory followed her.

“What is it, Myrcella?” Jory asked.

Myrcella gave her friend a piercing look and asked, “Where are they going?”

Jory made a distressed sound and turned her head away. “I cannot answer that. You know I cannot answer that. I have sworn to both my lady mother and my liege that I would tell you nothing of what is happening outside.”

Ignoring Jory’s words, she continued to press, “Is he going to Winterfell? Is he going to besiege my uncle?”

“If I could tell you, Myrcella, I would.”

“Please, Jory, please. I have to know.”

But her friend refused to be drawn and Myrcella turned her back on her, and sat silently in the corner, icily ignoring all of Jory’s attempts to make any further conversation.

\----------------

Myrcella’s silence and the wait went on throughout the rest of the day. She could not sleep, imagining both Robb falling to an arrow from Winterfell’s walls to Tyrion being beheaded the way Lord Stark had been in King’s Landing. Every time her eyes closed, visions of blood and death stained the back of her eyelids until she wanted to scream in frustration.

It wasn’t until she heard the muffled sob from the corner that Myrcella realised that whilst she was frustrated and confused by her conflicting thoughts regarding Robb, that Jory was probably scared. Both Lady Mormont and Lyra had ridden with Robb and the Mormont ladies would be on the front line. They always were.

Jory had already lost one sister in the service of Robb Stark, was she about to lose another and her mother?

Flinging her furs back, Myrcella padded over to Jory’s pallet and snuggled in close to the other girl.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve been so focused on myself that I did not even think to ask if you were okay.”

A pair of skinny arms crept around Myrcella’s neck. “This is the first time I’ve ever been left behind since mother and Dacey rode off with Robb the first time,” Jory said. “Since then I’ve always ridden into battle alongside my mother. This waiting is worse than any nerves you get as you face off the enemy.”

“They’ll come back,” Myrcella said insistently. “Nothing is going to happen to your lady mother or sister.”

_Robb will come back, too,_ she told herself and then cried with guilt as she thought of how that wish betrayed her family.

The two girls waited like that throughout the night, curled up together to draw strength from each other. They didn’t leave to get breakfast or the midday meal, preferring to wait in their cocoon of anxiety. With Jory, Myrcella was free to be herself but in front of the watching eyes of others, she had to pretend to be serene and unconcerned and she was unable to put on such an act that day.

Myrcella was dozing when Lady Mormont returned, her head on Jory’s lap enjoying how the other girl carded her fingers through her hair.

“Mother!” Jory said, dislodging Myrcella as she jumped up to embrace Maege. Jory looked behind her mother but there was no sign of Lyra. Myrcella watched as her face went pale. “Not Lyra,” Jory said in a strangled tone, a hand clutching at her chest.

Lady Mormont gave a small smile. “No, my child. Lyra is fine. The King ordered her to get a scratch seen to.”

And with that Myrcella let go of the breath that she had been holding in. Robb had not been killed but she frowned as the implications of that hit her. Robb and his army were back, seemingly victorious from whatever battle they had fought, but if they had gone to lay siege to Winterfell then they should not have returned – certainly not this soon – and surely, they would’ve sent for the rest of his retinue to follow on to Winterfell.

“-the King is with the Lannister in the medical tent.”

Myrcella lifted her head at the overheard words. It was obvious she was not meant to have heard, as Lady Mormont had been talking quietly to Jory across the small chamber. But Myrcella had always had keen hearing from years of sneaking her way around the Red Keep trying to avoid Joffrey and whichever of her septas were meant to keep her cooped up in the Queen’s private rooms.

“Lannister?” Myrcella queried. “Robb has captured one of my kinsmen? Is it my uncle Tyrion?”

_Please not Tyrion_ , she thought. _Robb would be sure to behead him for holding Winterfell in the name of the Lannisters._

“Your Highness, you are not to know this,” Lady Mormont said uneasily. “I am under orders to keep you inside here.”

“If Robb has one of my kin then I demand the right to see them,” she said haughtily.

“His Grace has forbidden that.”

However, Myrcella was not listening. Instead, she darted out of the chamber before Lady Mormont or Jory could block it off with a deceptive turn of speed. Picking up her skirts, she headed outside.

She rushed towards the tents that had been set up in a clearing next to the cave system. It had been deemed unsanitary to keep the sick in the system of damp stony chambers. The healing tents were overseen by a formidable Northern woman, Dylla, who came from Torrhen’s Square. She had been the settlement’s healer and had joined Robb’s army with her brothers. She was an invaluable member of Robb’s retinue and Myrcella had overheard him praising her presence more than once, claiming that his army would not be nearly as healthy and hale as they were without her. He had given her a small legion of young boys and girls who ran tasks and she trained up the most promising of them.

“You cannot go in there, Your Highness,” Dylla said, trying to block the entrance of the smallest tent as two guards flanked her.

“Stand aside!” Myrcella ordered.

Dylla looked at her sympathetically but shook her head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but King Robb as forbidden anyone but essential staff and himself access to the patient.”

“My kinsman is in there. I demand to see him.”

“Orders are orders, Your Highness.”

“Let her in,” a voice that sounded suspiciously like Robb called from inside and Dylla and the guards instantaneously stepped aside.

Sweeping past them, Myrcella pulled the fabric of the tent aside and entered.

It was dim inside the tent with only one brazier lit. Ser Brynden stood, arms akimbo along one side of the tent, his eyes meeting hers briefly as she surged in. Robb sat on a chair next to a pallet piled high with furs.

With anxious eyes, Myrcella sought out just which Lannister had been captured. There, sweat dripping down his forehead, his eyes heavy lidded and jaw clenched, lay her cousin, Daven Lannister.

Her eyes widened. What was Daven doing here? He was meant to be based in the Riverlands, keeping the peace in that troubled region. Then the truth of just what battle Robb had fought hit her. The nearest Lannister army had been sent north, most likely to find her and instead of finding Myrcella held hostage by bandits, they had come up against the Young Wolf and his army.

And now Robb had himself a second, albeit wounded, Lannister hostage.

“Your Highness,” Daven said hoarsely, a small smile curling up his lips despite the furrow of pain that rested in between his eyebrows.

“Daven,” Myrcella whispered, coming forward, sinking on her knees and grabbing his hand, which was hot and clammy despite the shivers that wracked his body.

“It is good to see you unharmed, little princess,” Daven said. “I had hoped to find you and bring you home.”

“You still can, Daven,” she said with an encouraging smile.

“Nay, sweetling, my fight is done.”

Confused, Myrcella looked up to Robb for confirmation of her cousin’s words. He gave her a small grim nod of the head and she stifled back a sob. Crying would not help ease Daven’s final moments and she was determined to be of comfort to him.

With her free hand, she smoothed back the few locks of golden hair that clung damply to his forehead.

“Are you being treated well, Your Highness?” Daven asked.

“Don’t worry about me, Daven. I’m fine. Well, as fine as being held prisoner in a cave system gets.”

He smiled at her. “Good. As long as Stark here isn’t abusing you.”

“His Grace,” snapped the Blackfish from across the room.

“You mean like you Lannisters abused and forcibly married my sister,” Robb said angrily at the same time.

Myrcella could not help the laugh that spilled passed her lips at the self-righteous anger of Robb and his great-uncle. However, she could see the anxiety that lurked in the back of her cousin’s eyes and was quick to reassure him. “No, His Grace has treated me with all respect.”

She could see that doubt still lingered in Daven’s eyes and she could not blame him. The Starks had no reason to treat her well – certainly not after the way Sansa had been punished during her spell as a captive in King’s Landing. So she removed her cloak and pushed up her long sleeves. “See,” she said, showing him her arms. “Not a bruise in sight.”

Daven visibly heaved a sigh of a relief at that but his lips turned down. “I just wish I could have brought you back home safe and sound. Or at least warned Lord Tyrion of just what lurked out in this accursed forest.”

“Aye, well, none of your men have been spared to ride back to Winterfell with any information,” Brynden Tully interjected from across the tent.

Myrcella’s heart sunk at that. Lannister men had been killed wholescale for her and her uncle still did not know that Robb Stark lurked biding his time before he could launch an attack to reclaim Winterfell.

_And yet earlier you cried over the thought of Robb’s death,_ she said to herself bitterly aware of just how contradictory she was being. How spending time with Robb Stark had confused her.

Ignoring the emotional maelstrom that resided inside of her, Myrcella concentrated instead on trying to ease Daven’s final moments. “Try not to fret about me, Cousin,” she said. “There is no reason to fear King Robb’s intentions towards me and I am sure that in due course a resolution will be arranged so I can return home.”

Out the corner of her eye, she saw Robb’s lips curl up in a small smile and she turned to catch his eye. There was a hint of admiration in the back of them that twisted her stomach into knots, a feeling she dared not look too closely at.

“I swear by the old gods and the new that I will treat Her Highness with all respect she is due,” Robb said, his eyes never leaving hers.

Unsure of whether that was meant to reassure her or her dying cousin, Myrcella smiled softy at him.

“See, Daven,” she said, turning back towards her cousin. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Despite his pained and sweating face, intelligence remained in Daven Lannister’s eyes and he looked shrewdly between Myrcella and Robb. “I see how things are,” he said. “I am satisfied enough to die in relative peace.

Myrcella frowned at his words, not understanding just what Daven was hinting at. However, when she looked at Robb there was a slight flush on his cheeks, and he turned away from the dying man, standing to whisper something in Brynden Tully’s ear.

 

 

 


	7. Conflicts and Declarations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _so_ sorry about how long it has taken to update this. I was running the Jon x Sansa Remix for large parts of August and September and then I got caught up writing ficlets for prompts on tumblr and a one-shot for Gadge Day, and basically, neglected this fic for longer than I planned on doing so!
> 
> Anyway, here's the next chapter! I know I _always_ say this, but the next chapter really should come a lot quicker, mainly because it is nearly written. I was writing both this and chapter 8 at the same time because I wasn't sure which one would end up being chapter 7. This one won out! But in the next chapter we'll be dropping in on Sansa and Winterfell!
> 
> As usual, this has not been beta'd and I basically just gave it a quick read through as I wanted to post it so you lovely faithful readers didn't have to wait _even longer_ for an update. So apologies for any mistakes.

In the weeks following Daven’s death, Myrcella shut herself away. She could not help but feel that she had somehow caused her cousin’s demise. In wishing that Robb would not die, would return to _her,_ that she had sealed Daven’s fate. For whilst Robb succeeded, the Lannisters could not prosper in the North.

Her mind ran in complicated circles, one minute wishing for nothing more than for Tyrion to sweep through the Wolfswood, Lannister men at his back to find her and return her home. Then the tears would leak from her eyes as she realised that she was happy to stay here – in this dank, damp cave system – if it meant she could be by Robb’s side.

How had she managed to fall in love with the man who not only held her hostage but also wished for the demise of her family?

_Traitor_ , whispered her mind, sounding far too much like her deceased brother, Joffrey.

He had teased and twitted her when they’d been at Winterfell as children, a constant stream of derogatory remarks about the North and the Starks – about _Robb_. Because of course he had known that she’d had a childish fancy for the oldest Stark child. Joffrey was always able to find out her weak spots and then use them mercilessly for his own gain. And then when Robb had rebelled, before she’d been sent far away to Dorne, he had tormented her with how he would take Robb’s head and decorate her room with it. How she could then gaze upon his Northern visage to her heart’s content.

Well, Joffrey was the dead one. Killed before he could wed his Tyrell bride as he celebrated the demise of Robb Stark with a hunt in the Kingswood. Killed in a freakish hunting accident just like his father, the messengers to Dorne had said, an arrow gone astray. All Myrcella could remember was the awful stench of her father’s chamber as he lay dying - the smell of blood, decay and death pervading the room no matter how much incense was burnt. Had it been the same for her brother?

But there had been no sadness. Nothing for the boy who’d loved to bully his younger siblings. Not like the grief and guilt she felt at Daven’s death. Daven had always been kind to her, bluff and jovial, and happy to give attention to the two youngest royal children.

“Myrcella,” Jory said quietly from the entrance into the small chamber. “Come outside today. The fresh air will do you good.”

She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, her voice cracking.

There was silence but Myrcella could feel the heavy gaze of Jory across the small space. She untucked her hair, allowed it to fall as a curtain between them and she heard a small sigh and the rustling of clothes as Jory left.

However, it was not more than five minutes later when footsteps returned. Too heavy this time to be Jory’s and a firm hand grasped her chin, lifting her face up and she looked into the kind eyes of Robb.

He studied her for a long moment before he rose back into standing and offered his hand out to her. “Come, my lady,” he said. “This moping inside will do no good.”

She flung her head up at his callous words, anger bubbling over. “I am not moping,” she hissed. “I am grieving for my cousin. My cousin who _you_ killed.”

“And you think you are the only person who has lost someone?” he snapped back. “My lady mother died to save me. Died at the hands of a plot concocted by _your_ grandfather, but I could not just waste away. If her death was to mean anything then I needed to fight.”

“And you would have me fight?”

“Aye, I would have you do something other than this hiding away in corners.”

“Who will I fight if I do that? _You_?”

“You could try, Your Highness. I am not sure how well you have be taught to wield a blade,” he said, clearly amused.

She rose then, energy coursing through her as she stepped up close to him, her hand raised ready to strike. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and holding it in place. “That is better,” he said with admiration. “I knew the fire could have been doused completely.”

Myrcella’s shoulders sagged. “You did that on purpose?” she accused.

“Aye, Jory’s kindness was not moving you. Now you are up, I do not plan on allowing you to sink back into your shadow. I have something to show you.”

“To show me?”

His eyes softened once more as he looked down at her. “Somewhere I go when I need to grieve,” he said.

Myrcella kept her eyes down as they navigated their way through the cave system. She did not feel able to cope with the curious stares she was bound to get. She also realised that it had been too long since she had done more than give herself a cursory wash. Her hair felt stiff with dirt and she could not remember the last time she had changed the clothes that the Mormonts had loaned her.

Almost as if she were besides her, Myrcella could hear her lady mother hissing her disapproval at appearing so unkempt in the presence of enemies. _A traitor and a slattern,_ the voice whispered in her head.

Shrunk into herself, it took Myrcella a while to notice that she was no longer in the cave system, but under the trees.

It felt good to be out in the fresh air again. She sniffed the scent of the pine forest in gladly, enjoying the scents of late summer. Her eyes hurt if she raised them too high, though, so used had they become to the dark gloom of the caves.

Before too long, Robb was leading her into a circle of trees. At the centre stood a large Weirwood, its bark bone white and its leaves blood red. Myrcella had been fascinated with the old gods since her first visit to Winterfell had been announced. She remembered when their personal Maester in King’s Landing had informed her and Tommen that they would be travelling north with the King and his retinue to Winterfell, they had begged for information on the culture and customs of the North. He had told them of the primitive tree gods that were worshipped, how faces that bleed were cut into the bark of the trees and the Northmen, misguided and backwards as they were, would pray to them. Tommen and Myrcella had gaped at Maester Prestor and giggled over how silly it was to pray to trees rather than to the Seven.

Then, when they had arrived, Bran and Arya had taken them into the godswood within Winterfell, and any ridicule she felt towards the old gods disappeared. She had felt like an outsider trespassing on something that was beyond her understanding, and her heart had beaten rapidly in her chest as they’d come upon the Heart Tree, so tall and majestic as it overlooked the inky black hot pools. She had gazed on the face, where it wept tears of blood red sap and clutched Tommen’s hand hard. It felt as if the tree god could look straight into her soul and she had been uneasy until they’d left the ancient godswood and been back in the heart of a bustling castle. She hadn’t returned and nor had she gone into the godswood for her visit this time. Sansa had offered to take her when she went to observe her own prayers, but she remembered that feeling of intense unease and had declined.

The stillness of the clearing had a similar atmosphere and her breath hitched in her throat as she looked upon the carved face in the Heart Tree’s trunk, sure that she was unwelcome due to the Lannister connections and Andal heritage.

“I come here to pray,” Robb said quietly. “It brings me a peace that I struggle to find elsewhere. In ancient times, the godswood in Winterfell was part of the Wolfswood and coming here is like coming home.”

Myrcella turned her eyes up to his. “Why did you bring me?” she asked.

“I know you are of the Seven, but the closest Sept is at Winterfell, and I thought you might like to pray for your cousin even if you do not follow the old gods.”

She smiled shakily up at him then in thanks and stepped hesitantly towards the Heart Tree. When she stood in front of it, she was overtaken by an urge to touch the carved face. With her hand outstretched, she reach up and brushed unsteady fingers over the tears that ran down it cheeks. They were sticky and coated the tips of her fingers, but it was not unpleasant.

In fact, it felt more alive than the wooden carvings of the seven that rested within the private Sept in King’s Landing, or the more ornate versions that decorated the Great Sept of Baelor. This felt earthy and close, as if she was connected somehow to something that was beyond her understanding.

All at once, the apprehension she’d felt at being here disappeared. The leaves of the tree rustled, almost as if acknowledging her presence and she felt the sting of moisture in her eyes. Pressing her palm flat against the trunk, she began to pray.

_Help me._ _Help me to find some peace in my soul even if I am not one of your followers.  I am so conflicted over my love for Robb and for my family. It feels as if I am ripped in two._

Tears fell down her cheeks as her forehead fell towards the trunk, resting on it as she allowed the emotion to pour out of her, her shoulders shaking with the strength of her sobs.

Myrcella stayed that way until the storm of emotions passed, feeling tired and worn out, she slid down and slumped against the tree, her eyelids heavy and swollen. Her gaze rested on Robb, who sat across the clearing from her, his head turned up to the canopy and seemingly lost in his thoughts.

Taking advantage of his distraction, she allowed herself to study him. He had the colouring of his maternal family, much as she did, but he held himself with the gravitas that she remembered Eddard Stark having. Mayhaps it was the sombre hue of his face, but he did not appear so wholly Tully any more. There was a steel to his looks that reminded her of Winterfell itself. Life could throw what it wanted at Robb Stark, but he would weather it and stand firm as Winterfell had stood strong in the North for thousands of years. It was something that seemed intrinsic to the Stark family as Sansa had it, too.

Almost as if sensing her eyes, his head turned towards her and he smiled a little as he caught her watching him. “Are you ready to return?”

She nodded and he rose quickly from where he sat and was in front of her before she’d had time to do much more than struggle up into a straighter sitting position. He stretched out his hand and said, “Let me help you up.”

As she placed her hand in his, she thought back to the moment he had come across her in the Wolfswood. His hand then had felt wrong, as if she known that there was more to him that met the eye, and that she should be on her mettle. However, now, his fingers were warm and strong as they curled around hers and she felt safe, as if he could protect her from whatever the future could bring as long as her hand remained in his.

Once she was on her feet, she did not remove her hand from his and he seemed content to continue holding onto hers.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” she murmured quietly as they left the still clearing.

“Did it help?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said giving him a small smile. “More than I thought possible.”

The turmoil that had plagued her since she had realised the depth of her feelings for Robb Stark had dissipated. She had finally accepted that no matter how inconvenient it was, she loved Robb and that no amount of guilt would change that. The seed had been planted when she’d first met him all those years ago and been enchanted with the handsome Stark heir who was playful and kind not only to his siblings but also to her and Tommen. Somehow, it had become something deep and abiding in the worst of circumstances, but it had grown nonetheless. She did not know how this would end as she was sure she would be traded at some point, but she knew that that leaving Robb and the North behind would be a painful separation.

However, it was pointless to dwell on that now. Instead, as they neared the cave, she turned to him and said, “Would you take me there again?”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “If you wish. However, I have one condition.”

“What is it?”

“That you resume your recreation time with Jory.”

“I will,” she promised with a nod.

He smiled at her then and said, “In that case, I will bring you next time I come.”

“Thank you,” she replied, slipping her hand out of his.

She may have come to terms with her feelings for him, but that did not mean that she needed to make a spectacle of herself in front of his men.

\-------------

Robb continued to take her to the clearing and the Heart Tree every time he went. Myrcella had come to look forward to those trips, not only for the clarity that her reflections gave her, but also because it allowed her a glimpse into Robb when he wasn’t running a war camp and planning something that caused an almost permanent furrowing of his brow.

When they were by themselves away from the caves, he relaxed and talked to her as if they were two normal people becoming friends. He shared memories of his childhood growing up in Winterfell with his siblings, and she knew that he missed and mourned them with a passion she doubted she’d ever be able to summon even if something terrible happened to Tommen. The Royal household had never allowed such a carefree bond to develop between the royal children and whilst she and Tommen had been close and she loved him more than anyone else in her family, she had not been heartbroken when they’d been separated and she was sent to Dorne. In fact, she had found it easy to slip into life at the Water Gardens and she still insisted on several Dornish dishes being prepared for her even though she hadn’t lived there for a while.

They had even spoken about Jeyne Westerling. Myrcella would never have had the nerve to bring his former queen up, but he had asked her one day, his eyes never straying from the Heart Tree as he’d carefully framed his questions and she’d answered just as cautiously. She had tamped down the desire to wrap him in her arms as she’d told him how Jeyne had died in childbed just a year after being married again. His grief was not hers to share, and it was something that he needed to work through alone. Instead, she’d sat on the edge of the clearing and watched sadly as Robb had mourned his dead wife at the Heart Tree. However, when they’d left, he had slipped his hand into hers and gripped it tightly as if he could leech comfort from her touch alone. It had caused her heart to swell dangerously.

This trip, however, Robb was distracted and quiet. She had tried to draw him out a little on their way there, but he had replied randomly and in monosyllables to her questions, so she had fallen quiet, too.

It was obvious that something was praying on his mind and she knew that he had come here prior to bringing her to seek answers and peace, and she was determined not to take that away from him. So she sat silently on one of the thick trunks of the Heart Tree, watching the leaves above rustle gently in the breeze. It was strange how the Weirwood leaves seemed to have a mind of their own, blowing about even if there was little to no breeze at times.

Today was one of these occasions. The leaves made noise that was an odds with the stillness of the other trees. At several points, it even sounded as if the leaves were speaking, whispering _go, go, go_. It unnerved her a little and she did not think Robb had even noticed, sitting as he was with his head bent.

Myrcella wished that Maester Prestor had been more knowledgeable about the Weirwood trees when he had taught them about the old gods. Instead, he’d been full of scorn about primitive ways and false beliefs, and she knew next to nothing about how the old gods actually worked.

However, her assumptions that Robb had not noticed the eerie speech of the leaves appeared to be incorrect. After another round of rustling that sounded too close to _go, go go_ for her comfort, he nodded his head decisively. He lifted his head and when she saw his face, gone was the frown that had seemed etched there for the past week or so. His eyes looked brighter and his step was lighter when he rose up and held his hand out to help her.

She turned to leave, as they always did, but his hand on her shoulder stopped her and she spun back to face her.

“I am leaving,” he said.

Her heart skipped a beat before it began to thud heavily in her chest and her stomach seemed to gnaw at itself as she dissected his words and tried to understand them. Was he leaving the North completely or was he taking his men and just leaving her instead?

“What do you mean?” she asked, anxiously.

“I will leave tomorrow.”

Myrcella frowned then in confusion and his thumb came up to smooth her brow.

“I am going to reclaim my home. It is about time.”

“Winterfell? But-but _how_?”

Robb smiled at her. “The way I have been planning for the past couple of years.” He laughed at her bemused expression. “What did you think I was doing in the Wolfswood, Myrcella? I wasn’t planning on living here, picking off your uncle’s men until they decided they’d had enough and wanted to return south. I always planned to retake Winterfell. It is mine.”

“Are you insane? Robb, you cannot take Winterfell without a lengthy siege and you will never manage that. My uncle will send word to my grandfather or to Lord Bronn who hold the Cerwyn lands. You cannot hope to shoot every raven out of the sky – one is bound to slip through. And then they will muster men and cut you to shreds outside the walls of Winterfell.”

He laughed then and she wondered if he had lost his wits. If living in such a fashion as a dead man for such a long time had irreparably damaged his mind.

“Do not worry, sweetling,” he said. “There are things afoot that I have spent long moons putting into place.”

She wanted to focus on his endearment, but despite wishing to hear such sweet words from his lips, her mind was overtake in anxiety for his safety. The very real prospect of this being the last time she was alone in his company reared its ugly head and she could not bear the thought.

“Don’t!” she said urgently. “Robb, don’t do this! There will be no coming back from this.”

 He misunderstood her words – deliberately, she thought. “I do not plan to come back. It is time to move on. I came here seeking answers and I have been given them.”

Myrcella looked fearfully over Robb’s shoulder and into the weeping eyes of the Weirwood tree. The blood red sap was dripping quicker than she had ever seen it and she shivered at the sight.

“Please, Robb,” she pleaded, hoping to sway him.

His hands came up to cup her face and he rested his forehead against hers. “It is time, Myrcella,” he said and his breath fanned hotly over her cheeks.

Surging up onto her toes, she pushed her lips against his. Her actions took them both by surprise but Robb recovered first. One hand dropping from her face, to snake around her waist and pull her closer to him. The other slid into her hair, anchoring her face as he deepened the kiss.

Lost in the delicious wet heat of their kisses, Myrcella had no idea how long they spent entwined with each other. She had kissed a few other men before, harmless boys who posed no threat to her reputation, but it had been nothing like this. She could think of nothing but where her lips meet his and how hot his hands were as they ran up and down her back and gripped her hips. Her own were planted firmly in his hair as she attempted to drag him even closer to her. So when Grey Wind brushed against them, his nose butting against their sides, she jumped back with a startled squeak.

“I know, boy,” Robb said, his hand disengaging from her to run loving over his wolf’s head. “It is time to return.”

Myrcella wondered if her lips were as red and swollen as Robb’s were. If they way that they tingled was any indication then they were. Licking them, she stepped further away from Robb, but he did not allow her to go too far, his hand entangling with hers.

“I have no plans to die this close to my goal, Myrcella. I wish I could tell you more, but I do not want to burden you with any more conflicting thoughts whilst I am gone.”

Her eyes flew to his where his lips curled up slightly and his eyes were soft with understanding.

“Yes, I can imagine how hard this has been for you. I have had my own guilt to bear for falling in love with you. I fought it, hoping it was nothing but a strange fascination, but your cousin saw through me and I have since given up trying to deny it.”

“You love me?” she asked shakily.

“Aye, for all that has passed between our families, I should not feel the way I do about you. Yet, I do.”

She barrelled into him, her arms clinging to him as she buried her face in his neck. “Stay safe, my love,” she said. “Not just for me, but for your people. They yearn for a Stark king again, even those who do not know you are alive.”

He kissed her forehead and then her nose. “I will come back for you.”

She huffed out a laugh. “You better! No one else know where I am and I do not want to die in these woods!”


	8. Unwelcome and Welcome Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to stop talking about when I'll update this because it's obvious that I have no rhythm in writing this fic!
> 
> Also, remember this whole fic is a SUPER CRACKY scenario. I have attempted to make it as realistic as I can, but it's a Robb-survives-the-Red-Wedding AU so it's never going to be super realistic. If you're going to write me a review about how x, y and z could never happen then please don't, just tab back and stop reading something you obviously don't enjoy.

Sansa could hear her lord husband before she even opened the door. The events of the past moons had taken its toll on his temper. He was short with his men, clearly wanting some answers, but there never were any. Just mysteries and disappearances.

“How can a whole battalion of men just vanish?” Tyrion asked, as Sansa opened the door and put the tray of refreshments down on the desk. “It is not possible. There must be something other than a few stray horses that have returned?”

“We found the remnants of some kind of skirmish,” Alyn, the Master of the Horses, said. “And the remains of your cousin’s men.”

“Any sign of Daven?”

“Not that we could see,” Alyn replied looking uncomfortable.

“What is it?” Tyrion asked, irritably.

“Well, just that I am not sure we would recognise your cousin even if he had been there.”

“What does that mean?” Sansa asked, quietly.

Alyn shot her an uncomfortable look and hesitated to answer.

“I believe my lady wife asked you a question, Alyn!”

“It was the wolves, my lady,” Alyn said. “By the time we found Daven Lannister’s men, they had already been dead a day and the wolves had been at them.”

Sansa’s stomach recoiled at the thought.

“Wolves,” Tyrion muttered. “It’s always wolves in this damn region.”

Alyn just stood there as stoic and calm as ever. He was a Stark man and she knew that he’d only to work at Winterfell because she was its lady. He was never rude towards Tyrion, but he was a Lannister and that name held little weight in the North.

“You may go, Alyn,” Tyrion said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Sansa, ever courteous, gave the Master of Horse a smile as he left the room with a murmured goodbye to them both.

Seeing that Tyrion’s goblet was empty once more, Sansa refilled it with some of the Arbor Gold that her lord husband enjoyed so much and shipped in to White Harbour at no little expense.

“My father is going to be furious,” Tyrion remarked.

There was little Sansa could say to that. She did not care much for Tywin Lannister, disliked him as much as she despised Cersei and had little sympathy for anything that upset the Lord of Casterly Rock.

“He has been threatening to pay a visit to Winterfell. He is unhappy that there is still no heir and with Myrcella missing and Daven seemingly dead by bandits in the Wolfswood, he will definitely come.”

The thought of Tywin Lannister in her family home made her sick. The man who had orchestrated the downfall of her family and had masterminded the death of her mother and brother in such a vile act that the repercussions were still felt across Westeros today, roaming the Stark stronghold. She did not want him to stride through the corridors where her father had ruled or nose his way into the Godswood and sneer at the Heart Tree that had always been so precious to her family. Her blood boiled at the thought of him going into the crypts, seeing the statue she’d had built for her father, when his bones had finally returned to Winterfell two years past. There was also a statue of Robb, but no bones because they had never been recovered from the Twins and her heart hurt to think of a Stark buried in some mass grave, far away from Winterfell. Her lady mother’s body had never been recovered either so she was not buried in the lichyard here or had she been given a river burial as per the Tully way. Bran and Rickon were also there, their little charred bodies buried close to their father. Sansa had made sure that Statues of Grey Wind, Summer, and Shaggydog also were carved, alongside her Lady.

There was nothing for Arya. Sansa could not bear to create a memorial for her missing sister when she still had so much hope that one day she might turn up at the gates of Winterfell. She dreamed of laying eyes on her sister and having her last remaining trueborn sibling with her.

She had been in correspondence with Jon Snow, too. He wrote periodically, ostensibly to update the Lord Protector of Winterfell on the status of the Night’s Watch, but there was always a missive for Sansa and she knew that he liked to check that she was well, but, he had never travelled down to Winterfell, despite her hints that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch would always be welcome. She understood why. It would be painful to see Lord Tyrion seated where once their father had sat. A Lannister ruling in the Stark stronghold. It still made her heart ache at times, and she’d had many years to become accustomed to the sight.

“When would you expect your lord father to arrive?”

Tyrion continued to stare deep into the fire. “I will write to him this afternoon of Daven’s demise. If he does decide to come, then it would not be before two moons, I am sure. Plenty of time for us to ready Winterfell for his presence.”

Sansa stiffened at the implication that Winterfell was not already good enough for Lord Lannister. She had done her utmost to return it to the condition it had been in before she’d left for King’s Landing all those years past with her father and sister. To her, it remained the greatest castle in Westeros.

However, she hid her anger and said calmly, “I will speak to the Steward about improvements that could be made.”

Tyrion smiled vaguely in her direction, which Sansa took to be her dismissal. On her way to the Godswood, where she would pray for the patience to deal with Tywin Lannister, Sansa visited the rebuilt Sept and lit a candle in front of the Crone for Myrcella. The little princess had been missing for several moons now and Sansa had no real hope that she was alive, but did not harm to say a prayer for her to find her way back to Winterfell. Sansa had never been shown much kindness from the family she had married into, but Myrcella and Tommen were an exception. Both were unfailing sweet and it remained a mystery how they had been siblings to Joffrey.

Myrcella’s disappearance had hit her as hard as it had Tyrion. Sansa wished they knew what had happened to her.

\------------

In the end, Tyrion was wrong about how long it took Tywin Lannister to descend on Winterfell. He rode through the gates just over a moon after the raven left Winterfell. It was impressive show of organisation and speed, although he had arrived in advance of the main bulk of his men, preferring to travel swiftly with a small number of cavalry.

“Ser Kevan has command of the foot troops,” Lord Tywin said, as he sat in her father’s chair and surveyed them both across the desk. “I thought it was time that the North remembered just who rules here.”

“You suspect a rebellion?” Tyrion asked, with his eyebrows raised.

“I suspect _something_. The heir to the throne has been missing for the best part of four moons and a battalion of Lannister men was destroyed in the Wolfswood. This is not something I expected to happen when I send you here to rule.”

The rebuke was clear and Sansa watched as the flush rose in Tyrion’s cheeks. She struggled to understand just why both her lord husband and Lady Cersei were so desperate to please Tywin Lannister. He was always so dismissive of their efforts to please him. Then again, Sansa had grown up in the midst of a loving family and she always watched how the Lannisters interacted with each with a bemused fascination.

“A rebellion is unlikely,” Tyrion responded. “I have men within all the households of the Northern lords, and all remain within their holdfasts. There has been no increase in ravens flying across the land. If there was to be a rebellion would you not expect one of them to lead it? It would be hard to rally an army together with no visible leader and no suspicious communication.”

“Are you suggesting that Daven’s men were destroyed by an army of wolves?” Tywin asked incredulously.

“Stranger things have happened,” Tyrion pointed out. “Look at the situation in the Riverlands. Is there not a monstrous pack of wolves who terrorise the land on a regular basis? I have heard tales of them taking down parties of armed men.”

“A few hunting parties have gone missing. Walder Frey snivels about his men being targeted by a giant she-wolf, but it is nothing comparable to the battalion Daven took with him into the Wolfswood. No, they were ambushed by men.”

“And how do you plan to deal with these phantom rebels?” Tyrion asked, irritation bleeding into his voice.

“A lot more decisively than you have. Do not think I have forgotten your reports about the Dreadfort. Stark loyalists killed off House Bolton in revenge and are now gathering close to Winterfell. Whoever is out there needs to be dealt with once and for all if you are to remain secure in the North. There is still no heir to name as Lord Stark, which means our rule is vulnerable to an uprising.”

Lord Tywin’s steely gaze swept between them both and Sansa was sure that if he could get away with it, he would stand in her chambers and watch as Tyrion consummated his marriage and begat an heir. She was grateful to the thin protection her name gave her that meant Lord Tywin would not go that far.

She happy to receive her dismissal moments later as Lord Tywin gestured for her to leave so he could speak in private with Tyrion.

\-------------

Several uncomfortable days passed where Lord Tywin took up residence in her father’s old chambers and in his solar. Sansa had known this would happen, but it was a sharp stab to her heart to see him so comfortable with what had once belonged to her father. Sansa herself remained in her childhood room. She had been offered the choice of suites when she had returned north, but it felt wrong to reside in either of her parents’ chambers. Tyrion, having thin southron blood, slept in her mother’s chambers, something that she had slowly become used to although every now and again, the realisation that her lady mother was never going to be in them again would hit her hard. On those days, she would spend hours in the godswood, struggling with the realisation that she was probably the last Stark.

There was a sharp knock on her door which had her maid, Bessa, frowning.

“Let me get rid of them, my lady,” she said, moving across to the door where she only opened it a fraction.

Sansa heard the deep voice of Alyn outside and she wondered what had brought the Master of Horse up to see her this late at night. If there was anything wrong with the stables then he should really go to Tyrion.

However, Alyn had always been a Stark man. Sansa had suggested he be named Master of the Horse to silence some of the grumbles amongst the Stark retainers that had been taken on from the land around Winterfell at all the high Lannister appointees, and he had always looked towards her rather than Tyrion.

Wrapping her robe firmly around her, Sansa pulled the door to her chambers open wider despite the disapproving look from Bessa.

“Is anything wrong, Alyn?” she asked.

“Sorry to disturb you, milady, but I just wanted to let you know that your mount strained a hock today during exercise. I have put a poultice on it but I doubt she will be available for you to ride tomorrow if you so wish.”

Sansa did not quite understand just why Alyn would seek her out to tell her this after the household had retired for the evening, but she did not allow any of her surprise at his actions show on her face. Instead, she thanked him kindly and sent him off to his bed.

“I do not understand these Northmen and their strange need to come and tell you everything, my lady,” Bessa said.

Bessa was the only one of her maids that she had kept from her time in King’s Landing. Bessa had also been the only one who would whisper in ears that they were all made to spy on her and to report her comings and goings to Queen Cersei or Lord Tywin and the check on her correspondence. Sansa had come to trust her and when the time had come for her to travel back to Winterfell, Bessa had been the only maid she request make the journey with her.

However, for all Bessa may have come to love Sansa, she had never grown to understand the North.

“It is how things were with my lord father, Bessa,” she said with a soft smile, remembering how her father would give time to his retainers and made them feel as if they were part of House Stark. He had taught all his children to do the same.

“In the North, the winters are harsh,” Sansa continued. “It does not matter if you are a great lord or a scullery maid, winter will come for you just the same. We Starks know that in order for the North to survive, we must work together.”

_When the snows fall and the white winds blows, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

It had been one of her father’s favourite lessons to them. A reminder of why they should stick together and it was one that did not just apply to House Stark but the North on a whole. They could only ride out the harshest winters through teamwork. The old would sacrifice themselves for the young and the strong would protect the weak and vulnerable. Winters were about survival and could decimate the population in a way that those from below the Neck could never understand. They might get a little snow but nothing like the towering snow drifts that would threaten to wipe out the North on a whole. They had only experienced a mercifully short winter since coming back North so Bessa, whilst coming to respect the ferocity of the weather had yet to fully comprehend how destructive it could be.

“Don’t tell me,” Bessa said with an affectionate roll of her eyes. “Winter is coming.”

Sansa gave a huff of amusement at her maid’s words. “Aye,” she said in her strongest Northern accent. “Winter is coming, my little Southron, and but you are part of my pack now and I will see to it that you survive.”

“Get in bed with you, my lady,” Bessa said, leaning over to give her a kiss on the forehead like she did every night.

For all that living in the new reality that was Winterfell could hurt Sansa at times, she never forgot that she had people who looked out for her, who loved her and let her know that they were there for her. Like Bess and like Alyn.

\----------------

The commotion below her window woke Sansa with a start. For one horrible moment, she thought she was back in the Red Keep in King’s Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater, but a brief look around assured her that she was in her chambers at Winterfell and there was no eerie green glow outside her window.

Nevertheless, something was happening. There were shouts and the ring of steel upon steel but it was not until she heard the howl that goose-bumps rose on her arms. That was no wolf but a direwolf and her hand briefly groped for the comforting presence of Lady. However, Lady had been gone for years, yet another ache that weighed down on her heart like the loss of her family did.

Flinging the covers back from her bed, Sansa grabbed her robe and pulled it on quickly as she made her way to her door. Was Winterfell under attack? She grasped the handle and stopped, puzzled, when it refused to budge.

Her door was locked.

She tugged again and again, getting increasingly agitated. She had strict orders that her door never be locked as it reminded her of being a prisoner in King’s Landing and of how helpless she had felt.

Whirling away from the door, Sansa made her way to her window, pushing her face flat against the pane as she tried to understand what was happening. It appeared as if there was definitely a fight of some kind happening as she could spy a frenzied whirl of shadows below. There were muffled cries, too, ones of both pain but also jubilation, however, she could making nothing out until there were rousing cheers and a sudden shout of “Winterfell, Winterfell! To the King!”

Apprehension washed through her suddenly. The King? Was Tommen here? But that would not make sense. Tommen would not need to fight his way into Winterfell if he come to visit, without a word mind you to either his uncle or his grandfather.

The only other claimant to the throne she could think of would be Stannis Baratheon, but he had not been off Dragonstone for years and his shout would not be of Winterfell.

Mentions of a King beyond the Wall flittered into her mind but again Sansa dismissed them. Why would there be cries of Winterfell if any Wildling king had made it over the Wall and surely Jon Snow would have given them some warning if the Wall had been breached.

A howl rang around the courtyard outside and Sansa’s heart skipped a beat before thudding painfully hard in her chest once more. There was a direwolf once more here Wintefell and that could only mean another Stark. One of her brothers, because Arya had driven her wolf off in the Riverlands and Nymeria had been lost to her almost as painfully as Lady had been for Sansa.

But all her brothers were dead.

Her breath came in painful pants then as she strode back across to the door and tugged at it fruitlessly once more. Banging on the sturdy wood, she screamed, “Let me out!” over and over again until her voice was hoarse and her throat hurt.

Still no one came.

Yet she could hear the sounds of many boots throughout the Great Keep. There were occasional shouts and what sounded like clashes of swords, but no one opened her door.

Then someone was suddenly there, wrestling with the door from the outside and cursing as it failed to bow under some hefty kicks.

“It’s no use,” a voice said harshly in a Westerland accent. “Someone’s locked the wolf bitch in.”

“No doubt one of those Northern traitors who opened the gates.”

“We need to get out of here. Someone will be along for her shortly.”

Scared now, Sansa retreated to her bed, a heavy candelabra from her dresser clutched in her hands. She had briefly contemplated scurrying under her bed to hide, but had quickly dismissed it from her mind. She was the Stark in Winterfell and she would not cower away in her own castle.

_I am a Stark. Yes, I can be brave,_ she chanted over and over in her head as she ignored the way her limbs shook.

She sat there, clutching her makeshift weapon as her ears listened intently to every noise, trying to work out what was going on from every little noise that she strained to hear.

Finally, there was the scrap of a key in her lock and she scrambled off her bed rapidly, and hid behind the swing of the door. She might be able to protect herself from whoever had come for her if she had the element of surprise.

A man shuffled in with the stench of sweat and the tangy coppery smell of blood clinging to him. She raised the candelabra above her head and was about to rush out and whack him on the head as hard as he could when he called out softly, “Lady Sansa.”

The Northern accent and the low rasp of the voice was recognisable and her breath left her in a whoosh of relief.

“Alyn,” she said, a sob causing her voice to hitch.

The candelabra dropped out of her hands and clattered harshly to the floor.

“What’s this, milady?” he asked, looking at the heavy object rolling a little on the floor.

However, Sansa ignored his question. “I was locked in! Why was I locked in? Was it you?”

“Aye, I’m sorry, milady. I feared that someone would come for you to take you hostage so I made sure they couldn’t.”

“They came,” she whispered. “Two Westerlands men came and tried to get in.”

“I thought they might, so did his Grace. My primary orders tonight were to make sure you were safe.”

“His Grace?” she asked confused. “Who is here?”

Alyn grinned then and said triumphantly, “I do not wish to spoil the surprise, milady. I was told to get you the moment the castle was secured, which is has been now, thank the old gods.”

He gestured for her to exit her chambers but she looked down at the robe that she wore and baulked at the thought of confronting whoever it was that had Alyn so excited in her nightwear.

“I need to dress,” she said.

Alyn seemed to take in what she was wearing and colour flooded into his cheeks. “Oh…er…”

“Step out the room for a second please, Alyn, and I will put some proper clothing.”

She found a gown that laced up the front and was pleased to note that it was the wintery colours of House Stark. She was still unaware of exactly who had taken her castle, but as the Lady of Winterfell, she would attend them in the rightful Stark colours.

There were men milling everywhere throughout the Great Keep, scurrying about with great vigour and many smiles. She and Alyn passed with little notice. The courtyard that led to the Great Hall was a hive of activity, too, and Sansa averted her gaze from the dead bodies that were being carried out.

It was the direwolf that noticed her first. It paced in front of the Great Hall, his great tail swishing agitatedly back and forth as if it were impatient. She stuttered to a halt at the sight of it and its yellow eyes caught hers for a moment before it was streaking across the courtyard towards her.

Men yelped and threw themselves out of its way and Alyn tugged on her sleeve to try and drag her back into the Great Keep, but she brushed his hand off and engulfed the massive direwolf, her fingers tangling in its fur and her mouth pressed into its neck.

“Grey Wind,” she murmured as a sob overcame her and tears began to flow.

She did not know how long she remained like that, embracing her brother’s wolf, but hope soared in her heart at his presence here. If Grey Wind was here that that could only mean one thing: her brother was, too.

A warm hand clutched her arm and she lifted her head and looked into the Tully blue eyes of her eldest brother. They gazed at each other for an age and her breath shuddered as she looked upon the first family member she had seen in eight long years.

“ _Robb_ ,” she breathed and for the first time since the news of the Red Wedding had reached her, the sound of his name did not cause an ache in her chest. “Robb, it’s really you.”

A tear ran down his cheek as she let go of Grey Wind and flung herself in his arms. “It really _is_ you,” she repeated as she buried her face into the junction between his neck and shoulder.

She felt the huff of his laugh in her hair as he pulled her even closer, his arms squishing her to him as hard as he could. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion.

 


	9. Resolutions and Endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled with this chapter. I know many of you wanted a confrontation with Tywin but it just wasn't working.

Robb rubbed at his furrowed brow as the solar around him erupted into arguments once more. He had thought that taking Winterfell would be the most difficult thing. Regaining the home that he lost all those years ago to his best friend. He should have known better. Should have realised that retaking Winterfell was naught but the beginning.

The real trouble would be the politics afterwards, which included what to do with those Lannister inhabitants of his castle.

He could not have predicted that Tywin Lannister would be one of his captives. He had planned to draw the old lion out of his den on the Westerlands and thought he had once Devan Lannister had been sent north with an army that he had crushed in the Wolfswood. What he had not predicted however was that Tywin Lannister himself would come into the North and be at Winterfell.

The Lord of Casterly Rock was a bigger prize than he had anticipated and it was giving him a headache.

A soft hand landed on his shoulder and he turned his head to see Sansa looking at him in some concern.

His sister had been at his side since he had stormed Winterfell three days past. He had worried how she would welcome him. Would she hold resentment for him leaving her in King’s Landing all those years ago? After the sheer joy of their reunion, he had stuttered out an apology, one that had lurked in the back of his head for years; one he had not allowed himself to think on for too long just in case he was destined to never meet Sansa again. However, his sister was as generous and as kind as he remembered. She had grabbed his hand, held it to her lips and kissed it with instant forgiveness. Tears had fallen down his cheeks at her actions and he had been determined to never to let her down again or to underestimate her.

Sansa had been elevated immediately to his council. Her knowledge of Lannister family politics extremely useful for a king who’d been living in the wilderness for more years than he had ever ruled from a castle.

“You are going to have to execute him, Robb,” Sansa reiterated quietly.

It had been the position she had held ever since he had broached the subject with her.

“But the reaction from King’s Landing if we do such a thing. If we ransom him for our kingdom then we have a chance at peace.”

She shook her head. “This is Tywin Lannister. He will not allow the realm he dominates to be carved up. Once your return from the dead is widely known, men will dare to rebel once more. The Lannisters failed to kill the Young Wolf in battle and then with more treacherous measures at the Red Wedding. Tywin knows this. He will not rest until you are actually dead and the Starks are no more.”

“Princess Sansa is correct, Your Grace,” Maege Mormont added.

He looked back over the table to see that his council was paying close attention to their conversation.

“Besides, Cersei cannot rally the Westerlands behind her as Tywin does. She is unpredictable, but she does not hold the power or acumen that her father does. She is divisive and easier to exploit. This is our opportunity to land a blow to the Lannister regime and its grip on Westeros,” Sansa continued.

His sister’s words made sense and he knew that. It was also the popular move. His men had been filled with bloodlust since Tywin Lannister had been arrested in this very room. Not executing Tywin would be inexplicable to his forces. His death was justice for the Red Wedding. The North would expect him to administer that justice, and if he didn’t then his reign from Winterfell would be off to a bad start. He knew this, but he could not help but think about Myrcella. On her tears when Daven had died. He did not want to be responsible for killing more of her family and bringing her more pain. He loved her, no matter how inconvenient it was, and in the darkest depths of the night, he had harboured hopes of marrying her and making her his queen. She would not want to marry someone who killed her kin. She would demand that he return her to her brother in King’s Landing and he would.

Besides it wasn’t as if the Lord of Casterly Rock was interested in being conciliatory. Robb thought back to the one conversation he’d had with Tywin Lannister on the previous day. The old man had been defiant even in capture refusing to treat with Robb and insisting on calling him the rebel Robb Stark.

The choice he had to make was clear: Tywin Lannister needed to die. He could not allow his heart to dictate his politics once more.

Turning to his council, Robb stated, “It has been decided. Tywin Lannister will be executed on the morrow.”

There were nods and smiles all round, but Robb could do nothing but sink back into the chair – not the one his father had sat in, which had burned with most of Winterfell, but a newer one with carved wolves and lions cavorting all around. It felt oddly satisfying to make the decision in this travesty of a chair. One that claimed Houses Lannister and Stark to be allies – nay, family. One that his decision to kill Lord Lannister mocked.

Robb waited until the room had cleared of everyone but Sansa before he said, “What of the Imp? What should his fate be?”

“You’re asking me to decide that?”

“It is your decision to make.”

She looked quizzically at him.

“You were the one forced into marriage with him therefore it is fitting that his fate should be yours,” he explained.

She squeezed his hand gratefully and he felt a pang of pain at her surprise at him deferring to her. He hated that she even doubted that he would, but his previous actions in the Riverlands would not exactly have filled her with confidence that she was of utmost importance to him. He regretted his decision to not have swapped the Kingslayer for her every day, despite knowing how much it would have cost him politically with his men. Being separated from his family for so many years had reinforced just how important they were. Sansa had not reproached him for that decision when they had spoken of it. She had smiled sadly and told him she’d always understood his decision. That she would not have been deemed valuable enough for him to swap Jaime Lannister for. Her lack of anger had made him feel even guiltier. The choice to leave her in King’s Landing should never have happened. He had recognised that even as a callow youth of six and ten years when his kingship began to fall apart around his ears. The fact that even Sansa recognised that his bannermen would not have accepted such a decision made him did not make him feel any better about what had happened and he would spend the rest of his life trying to show her how important she truly was to him.

“Would your men accept me making that decision?”

“If anyone has any objections, they can raise them with me.”

Sansa stood then and walked to the window, her face pensive as she looked out over the hustle and bustle of the main yard.

“Do not execute him, Robb.”

He drew in a sharp breath. He wasn’t sure what her choice would be prior to this conversation. She had made sure Tyrion’s cell was comfortable but had visited him briefly on all three days he had been held prisoner, but her support for Tywin Lannister to die had made him unsure of just where she stood when it came to her Lannister husband.

“He usurped my position here, Sansa, and married you by force. He ruled over my domain as if he was its master.”

She turned to face him, leaning back against the window sill. “He had little choice in that, Robb. He was ordered by his father to do all those things. Tywin isn’t like our father was-”

He scoffed. Of course Tywin Lannister wasn’t like their father. Father had been honourable, noble and a good lord.

Sansa held her hand up to keep him quiet and continued, “Father would never have coerced or forced us into marriage. He would never have forcibly married a young hostage in his care to either you or Bran or Rickon. He would never have treated his children with the same disappointment and contempt that Tywin Lannister holds his own children in. In his father’s eyes, Tyrion has always been a stain on House Lannister for being a dwarf. He’s a grotesque that his father has to suffer and Tywin has never failed to hide these thoughts from Tyrion.”

“What’s this got to do with Tyrion’s actions?” he asked, with some frustration. He didn’t want to sympathise with Tyrion Lannister.

“Tyrion would not be able to go against his father in such a matter of marrying me and ruling the North,” she tailed off and Robb could not help but think there was something she was not saying. “Besides, he went against his father in small ways that he could. He treated me kindly and did not force me to consummate the marriage.”

That confidence caused Robb to pause. He had wondered why his sister hadn’t had any children. A son of Sansa Stark would have been accepted as the Lord of Winterfell even with Lannister blood. He had presumed that the Imp was unable to sire children.

“How did Tywin Lannister allow that to happen?”

“He couldn’t exactly stand over us in our chambers. Besides, once we returned to Winterfell, the demands for a child were delivered by raven rather than in person and, therefore, easier to ignore.”

“So I don’t take Tyrion’s head off. What do we do with him?”

“He could be useful, Robb. He’s smart and has an instinct for survival. He also holds no love for Cersei, which we can use to our advantage. Besides, killing all our hostages is not the best idea.”

With her words, Robb realised that he had not told Sansa about Myrcella. Securing Winterfell, their prisoners, and implementing his regime from his castle had taken most of the past few days. The private conversations he had shared with Sansa had focused around their family and past pains.

“Tyrion will not be our only hostage.”

She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“I hold the King’s sister and heir.”

“Myrcella!” she exclaimed. “You have Myrcella.”

“Aye. Grey Wind found her wandering around the Wolfswood four moons back.”

“Thank the old gods,” she breathed, sinking onto the stone window sill with a sigh of relief.

He could not help his fond smile as he saw the affection his sister held for Myrcella. It appeared the young princess had a talent for worming her way into the affection of Starks.

“Where is she?”

“In the system of caves with Jorelle Mormont.”

“You must bring her here.”

“I plan to. I have already sent word with Galbart Glover for my remaining forces to make their way to Wintefell. The supply train will take over a day to reach Winterfell.”

Sansa nodded. “It is a good thing that Tywin will be executed before she arrives. She should not witness that.”

He stood then and walked over to his sister and wrapped her into a warm hug. He cursed those who made her watch their father die and vowed that he would not put Tywin’s head on a stick for Myrcella to see.

\------------

Later that afternoon, Robb made his way down to the dungeons to the cell that held Tyrion Lannister. Nodding to the guards on the door, they unlocked the door and stepped aside for him to enter.

Tyrion Lannister sat on a chair, reading through one of the tomes that Sansa had requested be placed in his cell.

Without preamble, Robb stated, “Your father is to be executed on the morrow,”

“You would be a fool to do anything else.”

“That’s it? No pleading for his life?”

Tyrion let out a small laugh at that. “What would that achieve? If you let my father go he would not rest until he’d brought your fledging kingdom to the ground and I wager my little wife has already told you that.”

Ignoring the anger that bubbled in the pit of his stomach at hearing Tyrion refer to Sansa as his wife, Robb nodded his agreement. Any hopes he’d once held of halting the bloodshed in this bloody war of his had been destroyed over the past few days.

“And you, my lord, would you seek to bring me down should you be allowed to live?”

Tyrion looked in surprise at him as if he assumed his death had already been decided. “I am not to share the same fate as my father?”

“Princess Sansa has petitioned for you to be treated with mercy.”

For once the dwarf was at a loss for words.

“This surprises you?” Robb asked. “You have been married to my sister for a while now, surely _you_ more than most are well aware of her compassion.”

A small huff of amusement was issued from Tyrion. “It was one of the first impressions I had of her.”

“Then all I am looking from you is your word that you will honour my sister’s kindness by not taking arms up against me once you are free.”

“You are going to let me go immediately?”

This time the laugh was drawn from Robb. “Oh no. I plan to gain all advantages I can out of my hostages. I already learned the hard way what happens when you let Lannister hostages slip through your fingers.”

He left the small cell then, not bothering to stop and acknowledge Tyrion’s called out question, “Hostages?”

Let the Imp stew on just what assets Robb held.

\------------

The courtyard was heaving with his men just after dawn the next day. The Stark execution block had survived the burning of Winterfell and stood where it had always had for thousands of years. Robb would not hand Tywin Lannister from the walls of Winterfell. That was not the Stark way. Not the Northern way and Tywin Lannister was going to be given a Northern death for his crimes against the North.

Robb felt a grim satisfaction as Tywin Lannister was led out among the baying crowd who shouted insults. It was fitting that this man should die in Winterfell at the hand of a Stark. For his father, for those thousands who had died at the Red Wedding, for his lady mother.

There was no emotion on the old lion’s face and Robb remembered the conversation he’d had with Jon Snow all those years ago, when they were all at Winterfell, and their father had executed the Night’s Watch deserter. He and Jon had casually spoken about if the deserter had been brave or deadened with fear. Now, Robb knew it was a lot more complicated than that. That there were many more feelings a dying man felt that were more complicated than whether they were being brave or not. He wagered Jon, brother of the Watch, knew that now, too.

Still, he wondered what emotions Tywin Lannister had now. If there was any fear hidden under that stoicism. If the Lord of Casterly Rock had any regrets, wished he had tried to treat with Robb all those years ago and just seceded the North, or if he wished he had been at the Red Wedding himself so he could personally see that Robb Stark had been killed instead of relying on the word of a man more treacherous than himself?

Icy green eyes met his as Lord Lannister was led up the rough stone steps to where the block lay. Robb had declined to allow him any last words, had expressly told him that when he visited him one last time in his cell yesterday evening. There was no point anyway. There was no one who wanted to hear Tywin Lannister speak in this place. Every person here had come to see him die for his crimes against every living house in the North.

Robett Glover went to push Tywin down onto his knees but the old lord lifted his hand imperiously and knelt himself and lay his head down on the block. Robb remembered the first time he’d had to execute someone, many years ago in Riverrun when Rickard Karstark had cursed him as a kinslayer. His heart had pounded then and it had taken him several times with the axe to separate his head from body. Blood had sprayed everywhere, speckling his face and dripping down his cheeks, mixed with the rain and tears.

Since then Robb had become more practiced at execution and at reining in his emotions. Mayhap because he’d gotten the worst execution out first. Killing Rickard Karstark had brought him no pleasure and he worried that he was nought but a kinslayer, no matter no long ago the Karstarks had separated from the Starks on the family tree.

Now, as he intoned the familiar judgement, words that had dispatched Rickard Karstark, Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow, he felt as if he was meeting out justice.

“Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, here in sight of gods and men, I judge you guilty of mass crimes against the North, including murder and usurpation of power for your own ends. In my own name, I condemn you. With mine own hand I take your life.”

He drew his sword, regrettably not Ice, yet another crime to notch up to Tywin Lannister, and with a mighty heave, he brought it down. Its honed blade sliced through the muscle and sinew to take the old lion’s head with one blow.

Cheers rang out over the courtyard as Robett Glover raised the head with two hands as a trophy.

Robb turned his head over to where Sansa stood slightly off to the side. She gave him a small nod. Justice had been served. Tywin Lannister, the instigator of the Rains of Castamere, the man who had brought destruction and death to the Riverlands, the mastermind behind the Red Wedding was dead.

He just wished it brought him more comfort than it did.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm around on [tumblr](http://rumaan.tumblr.com/) where you'll generally find me crying over the Red Wedding and wallowing in copious amounts of Stark feels along with some other random stuff. Feel free to follow me if you want to chat about anything, especially if it is Stark related.


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